


Pax Vobis

by MnM_ov_doom



Category: Darkest Dungeon (Video Game)
Genre: Bro Bounty Hunter, Fanart, M/M, Mom Friend Vestal, Slow Burn, Torture, and of course there is fluff, and of course there is sex, explicit because it's the Flagellant we're talking about, insufferable enemies to reluctant friends, partially disabled OC, reluctant friends to a unique kind of lovers, the Abomination appears, the feelings, welcome to the roller coaster of BDSM and FEELINGS
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-20
Updated: 2018-06-02
Packaged: 2018-12-17 19:57:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 13
Words: 61,807
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11858607
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MnM_ov_doom/pseuds/MnM_ov_doom
Summary: Proselytism: the act of attempting to convert by persuasion another individual from a different religion or belief system.Or, more realistically speaking...An attempt at conversion doesn't go as planned.(*EDIT* A kind person is making fanart!!!)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I got a cold and figured that the smart thing to do was starting this story and writing the final chapter for "A Day", but my cousins came back from the beach earlier, so I only had the time for this chapter. ;-;
> 
> I've never been this happy for getting a cold in the summer. Posting this with no proof-reading because I'm so feverish I can't really bring myself to do any kind of proof-reading, so I'm very sorry for any mistake.
> 
> So, here he is, the BDSM boy, and I hope you like this! :D Feedback is always treasured!

Damian stretched his lips in a grin as the rest of the party stared at him in uncomfortable silence; surely, when the Heiress had spoken about a new adventurer, they had expected something else. Oh yes, Damian saw it in their faces; the shock, the bewilderment, the doubt, the repugnance. All familiar reactions, and they did nothing but feed his pride about his convictions. He could not be understood, and he did not expect otherwise:

“Meet… the flagellant,” the Heiress spoke from her high chair, introducing Damian with a gesture of her hand. A heavy silence descended upon the small dining hall the party had been reunited in, and all eyes – a bounty hunter, a vestal and a leper – were still fixed on the flagellant’s figure. The chandelier over their heads cast enough light to expose Damian’s both imposing and pitying body, and all of a sudden the several hunting trophies and exposed armours and dark velvet curtains lost all eeriness:

“And…” the bounty hunter spoke, slowly. “… what can a flagellant do for your cause, milady?”

The Heiress simply tilted her head, as if the bounty hunter’s question was simply too stupid to be given an answer. Damian, however, knew the Heiress did not have a clue about his utility, and had only taken him in because she was in no position to refuse help.

* * *

 

The flagellant followed his fellow adventurers into the Hamlet, visibly enjoying the discomfort his presence caused. Even the vestal, a sister in faith in the Church of Light, was apprehensive. She too could not understand him.

The tavern was loud and crowded, but silence fell as, one by one, the other adventurers noticed the flagellant: his collar, his built body solely for the purpose of carrying all those scars, and the bloody flail hanging on his waist.

From under his hood, the flagellant regarded his surroundings. Seemed he had been brought to a place unfit for him; he had eaten that morning, his body needed no more sustain. Turning his scarred back to the crowd, he walked away, into the cold dusk, a hand already reaching for his flail.

The adventurers watched him go, in tense silence, until slowly conversation rose again, meals were ordered and booze drank. Still, no one knew what use a flagellant could have in such place: the vestal?, she knew sacred spells of Light and wielded a mace, knew how to heal and how to comfort; the crusader?, a prized warrior whose exquisite behaviour would be promptly ignored in favour of his fighting skills. But the flagellant?  He was merely a religious extremist, concerned about ruining his body in the name of the Light, and no one could understand how someone so committed in their own self-destruction would be able to fight something that wasn’t themselves.

* * *

 

The same party that had been assembled by the Heiress – bounty hunter, vestal and leper – was pleasantly surprised by the flagellant, though; he was actually capable of fighting something other than himself, and he even had combat skills that suggested he knew what he was doing, despite his only weapons being his flail and his bare wrists:

“We seem… capable enough,” the bounty hunter commented, looking at the dead creatures that had attacked them.

Damian said nothing, merely proceeded without even looking for loot.

Camping with the flagellant revealed to be problematic, though; he would sit away from his fellow adventurers, alone, his back turned to the campfire, and he would either pray or talk to himself while mercilessly flogging himself. The repeated cracking of his flail and the sound of his skin and flesh tearing apart, constantly breaking the silence in the dungeons, was extremely discomforting for the other adventurers.

As the days gone by and the party walked deeper into the dungeons, every time they had to set camp a different member of the party would try to talk the flagellant out of his routine: the vestal was the first, volunteering to clean his wounds and heal them with a spell, which the flagellant refused, claiming he was absolutely fine; the second was the bounty hunter, who simply tried to grab the flagellant and bring him along, and Damian ended up punching the bounty hunter unconscious and moving further away from the group, visibly annoyed for having been interrupted; the third was the leper, who tried to talk to the flagellant, understand his reasons, but Damian did not make himself understandable.

In the end, only the vestal, the bounty hunter and the leper were able to form a certain camaraderie amongst them, leaving Damian out and giving up on trying to make him socialize or to socialize with him.

* * *

 

When they returned to the Hamlet, they told the other adventurers how was it like going with the flagellant into the dungeons:

“Well… but at least he’s useful…?” the highwayman said, shrugging.

Useful, but not someone the other adventurers would risk their lives for. They all had a companion or companions like that, who they didn’t mind saving and helping and who they trusted with their lives.

But Damian had only himself, and he was fine with that. It was the life he had chosen for himself, and he had stopped feeling lonely years ago. It was just him, his flail and his faith, the certainty that he was doing the right thing, the thing that had to be done but that no one else was brave and strong enough to do.

* * *

 

The second time Damian went into the dungeons, was with a different party; a grave robber, an antiquarian and a highwayman. At first, they all marvelled at the way he fought their enemies, even told him nice words and tried to know a little about him, like where he had learned how to fight. But the flagellant would not answer them, and when time came to make camp, the party could confirm their fellow adventurers’ stories about how Damian was such an unpleasant company.

But the flagellant was completely unaffected by that.

However, when coming back through the Ruins, the party was ambushed by a handful of cultist brawlers, followed closely by a cultist acolyte. They outnumbered the explorers, who were injured and tired, and the highwayman thought it would be better to simply make a daring escape than wasting time fighting off their attackers. Everyone agreed with him.

Except for the flagellant, already engaged in a fight with a cultist brawler. And, since the flagellant was a dispensable party member… the others left without him. One of the cultist brawlers, probably the leader, barked out an order and the other brawlers left to chase after the fleeing party, leaving him and another brawler to protect the acolyte and deal with the flagellant.

Not that Damian seemed no notice, or care. He easily put one brawler down and he cracked his flail at the nearby acolyte, yelling at the top of his lungs about how the Light would triumph.

And he would have hit the acolyte, if only the remaining massive brawler hadn’t pulled her away, and Damian’s flail curled viciously around a muscled arm instead of a delicate neck.

The flagellant pulled the flail, expecting the brawler to unbalance or simply come closer. But seemed he had finally met an enemy that matched him in strength, because the cultist brawler didn’t move an inch. Instead, he was the one reaching out for the stretched flail and give it a sudden and vigorous pull, together with a step back. That forced the flagellant to step forwards, slightly unbalanced, and the brawler took the opportunity to slash at the flagellant’s arm with his long iron claws.

There was no scream of pain, and the flagellant blatantly stepped closer and punched the cultist brawler’s exposed lower jaw, once, twice, thrice, finally released his flail from his opponent’s grip and cracked it again towards the brawler’s neck, grinning victoriously.

But the flagellant finally screamed when something stung him from behind, and it was no pain, it was simply… _unbearable_.

The brawler untangled the flail from his neck, grunting, looking down at the flagellant fallen at his feet. Behind the flagellant, the acolyte tilted her head:

“Thank you, priestess…” the cultist brawler mumbled and bowed his head, though his eyes never left the flagellant’s body. He had seen big enemies, but they were all in armour and he had always assumed their size came from their equipment; this man lying at his feet, however, bared his big and muscular body, with no armour to aid him. The sheer power, the raw strength were simply there for all to see, and the brawler immediately wished the acolyte hadn’t intervened; he would have liked to see how far that enemy could go, how long would he take to break. Besides, judging by the fact that he had apparently not even noticed the big gashes the brawler did to his arm, that enemy should be a very experienced fighter.

“Can’t lose my favourite brawler, can I?” The cultist acolyte smirked, then looked down at the flagellant as well. She kneeled next to the unconscious body and unsheathed a ceremonial dagger from her belt. The hilt, covered in gems, shone despite the inexistent light. Only the blade, sharp but covered in copious stains of blood, remained dark. “Turn him around.”

The cultist brawler shook his head and fell to his knees, joining his hands in a plea:

“Not this one, priestess. I beg you,” he said as the acolyte raised the ceremonial dagger above her head, her mouth already open to chant. She did nothing, though the dagger remained raised. “I have lost many warriors in order to protect you and the other priestesses… I could use men like this.”

The acolyte said nothing for a moment. Then, slowly, she lowered her dagger, but did not sheathe it:

“And why should I grant you this favour? Sacrifices must be made, and the more the better,” she replied calmly. The brawler puffed his chest, tilted his head to one side:

“I have done you many favours, priestess…” he reminded her. “Let me break him, convert him,” A bold move, too close to being obscene. But the acolyte simply laughed, because yes, that particular brawler had done her many favours and had never asked for anything in return. She could simply make an enchantment right there, and the unconscious body would wake up immediately, take her orders, serve the Heart of Darkness. But feeling particularly generous, the acolyte decided that yes, she could grant the brawler that favour, she would let him play. She finally sheathed the ceremonial dagger:

“You truly are my favourite… Very well, then…” The acolyte raised to her feet and smoothed her garments.

The brawler bowed his head once more, respectfully and gratefully. Yet again, his eyes didn’t leave the unconscious body in front of him, and he felt an immediate spark of possessiveness: that dauntless enemy, the brawler would break him, make him scream and beg, would convert him and make him a warrior of the Heart of Darkness; the brawler just knew that man was his match and, once the brawler was sure they were in accordance, then more interesting things could be made, besides fighting.


	2. Chapter 2

Damian became slowly aware of the feeling of metal digging into his wrists. He grunted, feeling a strange and most unwelcomed sluggishness, and it appeared to him that someone laughed in the distance.

Numb fingers began to twitch and the flagellant grunted again. He tried to move his hands, but there was something stiffening his wrists, and again the feeling of metal digging into his flesh. His fingers brushed something though, and as the numbness faded away he could feel better with the tips of his fingers.

Chains.

And metal digging into his wrists, and muscle cramps in his arms and shoulders, and his feet barely touched the ground. With a new grunt, Damian forced his eyes open.

Everything was foggy and dim, but a silhouette stood there, right in front of him. Of what, Damian couldn’t tell. His mouth was completely dry and his throat felt itchy, and he grunted again:

“Awaken, are we?” the silhouette asked with a male voice. Croaky and dangerously soft, and whoever was standing there, in the fog and dimness with Damian, began to move in circles around him.

The flagellant remained still, though. If he felt the metal – shackles, it had to be shackles, and he had to be hanging by the arms – so his spiked wristbands and armwraps had been removed. But the weight of his collar was still there, and now that he noticed that, the metal of his collar was also digging into his shoulders. From under his hood, Damian tried to see his surroundings, but his vision – or in fact his surroundings – was still foggy and dim.

More metal against his skin, this time on his side, parallel to his hipbone. Something was cutting him, a bit too deep and slowly, causing actual pain to his desensitized body. He said nothing, merely moved away a bit. His arms and shoulders felt like they were being slowly torn apart from his body.

A figure wearing black garments moved in front of Damian, still circling him slowly. The flagellant raised his head, frowning as his collar dug deeper into his muscles, and as the muscles in his neck, stiffened for having supported the dead weight of his head during the amount of time he was unconscious, gave him the unpleasant feeling of snapping.

The figure laughed, slashing at the flagellant’s side again, a deep but swift cut, and Damian took in a sharp breath, wriggled a little to see what was happening. But he couldn’t move his arms and the chain holding him up was short and sturdy, not giving him enough freedom of movement.

Another slash, deliberately slow and jagged, between the flagellant’s tense shoulder blades, made him take another sharp breath, louder and shallower.

“Not very talkative, are we?” the same croaky voice asked, still too soft, too amused. And the initially disembodied voice materialized right in front of Damian as a golden skull mask with an aureole. “But maybe… not fully awaken, yet.”

The flagellant said nothing, did nothing. He could feel the blood running from his newly acquired wounds, too warm against his skin.

With a chuckle, the skull mask was gone, back to being a silhouette in black garments in the fog and dimness. But instead of resuming to walk around the flagellant in circles, the silhouette walked away, and there was the sound of a wood door shutting.

Silence.

Damian grunted, opening and closing his fists to prevent his hands from going numb again. But in that position, his fingers weren’t very keen in obeying. He tried to somehow change position, relief his arms and shoulders, but by no means he could find a way to do that. Fortunately, the initial discomfort his new wounds had caused him was slowly fading away.

The fog and the dimness persisted, however. Damian supposed it hasn’t him, but the place he was in. It was chilly and humid, and if he paid enough attention, he could hear water in the distance. Frowning with effort, he looked up the best he could, his muscles complaining and his collar digging into his shoulders again. It was too foggy to determine where the ceiling was, and like that the chains sustaining him seemed to disappear into the infinite above him. But there was a source of light nearby, whether a small window or a poor lonely candle in a niche in the wall.

One thing Damian was sure: the silhouette in black garments and golden skull mask was a cultist brawler. He had been fighting one… no, two, and he had defeated one and was fighting another one… but he couldn’t remember losing the fight, being taken captive. They had done some sort of dark magic to him, and the thought that such vile thing had been _on him_ made him scrunch his face in disgust. His left hand tried to reach for the flail at his waist, automatically. But he couldn’t move. And his flail was gone. By the looks of it, he was a prisoner of the cultists… and therefore, sooner or later would be killed… and could only imagine how slow and painful it would be.

He chuckled:

"I have been chosen to suffer, so suffer I must!"

* * *

 

Damian couldn’t tell for how long he was there. He would be fully alert in a moment, moving his fingers, flexing and unflexing the muscles in his arms, being through various stages of discomfort and pain, going from grunting in sheer annoyance to actually whimper lowly. He could feel blood drip slowly from his wrists, where his shackles were biting the flesh. And then he would grow numb, and cold, and go unconscious. Whenever he was awakened, he would feel a persistent headache.

He began to feel increasingly hungry and there were constant pangs in his stomach, and his mouth was just too dry.

And there was always the distant sound of water, and the occasional rattle of chains when he tried to move.

After what felt like an eternity, the brawler came back. Damian was fully alert, so through the fog he saw him opening a wooden door that wasn’t very far from and that leaded into a pitch-black void, possibly a corridor. And there was in fact a lonely candle, in a niche in the wall, above the door:

“Awaken, are we?” the brawler asked in the same croaky voice, still all too kind. The brawler didn’t bring the long and razor-sharp claws this time; instead, he carried a whip.

And that made Damian grin, because if the brawler thought he would get anything with that poor, miserable whip, the flagellant would be very pleased in telling him otherwise:

“Laughing?” the brawler asked and made his way to Damian. “We’ll see that…” And he raised his arm, made the whip crack against Damian’s broad chest.

The flagellant said nothing; that was nothing comparing to what he had already done to himself, and it felt like a good distraction from all sorts of discomforts and pains his body made him feel.

The brawler circled the flagellant, cracking the whip several times against Damian’s body. But aside from muscle spasms, the flagellant showed no reaction. And, surprisingly, the brawler seemed satisfied by it.

He left again shortly after. The flagellant couldn’t care; if he would die enduring torture, so be it. His body was strong and built for a reason, after all…

* * *

 

Alone, unable to count the time, Damian began to grow increasingly irritated. His headache was stronger, and besides the acute pangs in his stomach there was also a rising nausea and dizziness. He tried to break free once, only to realise he didn’t have strength to move at all. His mouth was impossibly dry and his lips felt chapped.

He would drift from consciousness to unconsciousness several times, and every time he regained consciousness, he would feel worse.

It appeared to him that whatever place he was in was increasingly darker, and the fog was thickening considerably. Sometimes, it seemed to him there were _things_ lurking at him from the fog, and he would try to mumble threats and prayers, but his mouth was just too dry, and his body felt too hot and sticky with dried blood and sweat.

* * *

 

The brawler was named Silas.

He opened the heavy oak door and looked at the flagellant, hanging by the arms, his body limp. That made the brawler grin, delighted, and he calmly made his way to his prisoner.

The shackles had bitten the flagellant’s skin and flesh and his arms were stained with dried blood. In fact, the flagellant was covered in dried blood and sweat, and Silas pulled down the flagellant’s hood and tipped up his head:

“Fainted, are we?” he asked, softly. Good, it had only taken two days. Still, Silas supposed the big broad man hanging by the arms in front of him was already slightly malnourished, and that it would have taken longer to reach this point, had the flagellant been in fitter conditions.

The brawler let go of the flagellant’s face and turned his palm to the shackles. He whispered ancient words, in a language forgotten and cursed, and the shackles opened with a metallic screech.

The flagellant’s body fell, and would have hit the ground if the brawler hadn’t held him against his chest. He then hauled the unconscious flagellant over his shoulder and left.

* * *

 

Silas strode across the maze that was the Ruins, through halls and corridors, being careful to avoid those he knew were the hiding place of the living dead and of those commanding them. They were sacred creatures in the eyes of the Darkness, and therefore should not be disturbed by the pettiness of a mere passer-by.

The steps of his booted feet echoed through the stone corridors and halls, the only audible sound in that part of the Ruins. The corridors were dark, poorly lit by occasional lonely candles in niches in the walls, but the brawler knew that maze by heart.

On his shoulder, the flagellant whined softly something incomprehensible, and that made the brawler grin and pat his prisoner’s back amiably, ignoring the open wounds and dried blood and sweat:

“I know, you don’t feel right,” he muttered, turned into a narrow corridor with high-vaulted ceilings and arrived to a spiralling stair going down. “But we’re going to fix that.”

Just as the brawler had started going downstairs, a female voice called him from behind, from the narrow corridor:

“Have you broken him, already?”

Silas stopped and turned around, to look at the acolyte who had granted him the favour of keeping the flagellant alive. He bowed his head respectfully before answering:

“Not yet, priestess.”

The acolyte just chuckled, then tilted her head to the side:

“I need a favour,” she said. “Come to me later, brawler.”

The brawled nodded, bowed his head once more, turned around and proceeded his way.

He went down for three flights of stairs, until he arrived to a circular hall littered with empty stone sarcophagi; their previous occupants now roamed the dungeons. There was a skylight high above him, in the ceiling, the dusky sky outside peeking in through the broken glass. The skylight was the only source of light to that hall and to the spiralling stairs. Since it was so distant, it kept the hall in almost complete darkness.

The brawler made his way to the single door in that floor; his chambers. He pressed his palm against the old oak door, that creaked open upon recognising the darkness in him:

“Now, we’re going to fix you a bit,” the brawler told the unconscious flagellant as he stepped in his chambers.

The sleeping chamber was spacious, and the niches that had originally contained reliquaries now displayed candles, that kept the room comfortably lit – not too dark, and not too bright. The stone walls were bare, but the cobble stones of the ground were covered by various carpets. The bed was simply a large mattress covered in blankets and furs and several pillows and bolsters, pushed close to the wall and between two niches with candles. Opposite to the bed was a massive wooden storage trunk, closed by large iron latches, where the brawler had left his claws and the flagellant’s flail and spiked wristbands and armwraps, and where he also stored basic medical supplies and two pairs of shackles. Next to the trunk there was a big niche with an intricate stone sarcophagus – empty, like all the others – and that the brawler had closed, covered with a fur and now used as some sort of table, since he kept ornate ceramic bowls with a large variety of dried fruits and a bronze hydria on top of it.

At the end of the room there was a small passage to a smaller chamber at a lower level, where part of a collapsed wall allowed passage for a spring that pooled among broken stones and more empty stone sarcophagi, before the water proceeded its way through cracks in the opposite wall. It was too humid for a candle, and only a lonely torch, above the passage to the main chamber, cast an eerie orange light into the smaller chamber.

There were no natural sources of light, and the chamber was constantly chilly due to the stone walls and to the water spring.

The brawler took the flagellant to the smaller chamber and carefully lied him on the flat surface of a collapsed stone. The unconscious body showed no signs of feeling the chill around it.

With a little, satisfied smirk, the brawler removed the collar and the hood from the flagellant’s head and ran his fingers through Damian’s buzzcut short hair, in search for injuries. Finding none, the brawler proceeded to strip the flagellant naked, carefully.

He felt a lot of scars as his fingers brushed skin, scars much older than the most recent ones the brawler had caused. That only meant he was right about his prisoner; the man was, in fact, an experienced fighter, and would be a precious acquisition to the old religion. The brawler stood up and made his way into his chamber, heading to the storage trunk, from where he took a clean cloth, bandages and ointments, then returned to the flagellant.

Gently, Silas washed the flagellant’s body with the cloth soaked in the cold water from the spring. That caused him to hear occasional grunts from the unconscious man. Next, he rubbed ointment on the wounds and bandaged them.

He then hoisted up the unconscious body and carried Damian into the bigger chamber again, to lie him down in the bed among the pillows and bolsters and furs and blankets. Unbuckling his stomach piece and discarding it to the ground, the brawler walked over to the trunk again, picked up a different ointment and went to kneel on the bed, next to the flagellant. Frowning with the effort, the brawler turned the unconscious body on his stomach and dripped some ointment into the palm of his hand.

The brawler began to massage the flagellant’s arms, first. He could feel the knotted muscles, and with expert ease he worked on them, pressing and rubbing with circular movements of his fingers and palms. He moved on to the taut muscles on the shoulders and neck, hearing a satisfied sigh that was almost a moan.

Damian was becoming conscious again, gradually, and besides a strong feeling of nausea and the damned headache, there was also a new, pleasant feeling of extreme relief on his abused muscles. It wouldn’t undo the whole damage, but at least eased the discomfort and felt… good, way too good, Damian realised with a frown. He was not supposed to feel that: pain was all he had to feel, not this… whatever was being done to him.

Damian tried to move, stop whatever was relaxing his muscles. A pair of big and strong hands, warm and greasy, was the source of his relief. He heard a hum and the hands stopped and were gone from his shoulders, leaving behind a blissful feeling of lightless.

The brawler turned the flagellant onto his back and walked away to wash the greasy ointment from his hands. When he returned, he noticed the previously unconscious man trying to move. He shook his head disapprovingly and walked to his makeshift table, to pour water into a shallow bowl. He returned to the bed, sat near the flagellant and dipped his index finger in the water:

“Feeling unwell, aren’t we?” he muttered calmly and touched the flagellant’s chapped lips with his index finger.

Damian thought he heard something being told to him, but he wasn’t sure. Yet, the feeling of water on his chapped lips was too real – and he needed water, desperately. He parted his lips, trying to suck the source of the water. Someone laughed, in the distance, but the rim of a bowl with water was placed against his lips and he drank, avidly, with the mild impression that someone had lifted his head to keep him from choking.

* * *

 

When the semi-conscious man didn’t want to drink anymore, the brawler brought him a handful of dried fruits and slipped them one by one into the flagellant’s mouth, patiently, feeling with certain gratification the feeling of Damian’s chapped lips brushing his fingertips: he was making an investment for the future, for the gods and for himself.

When the dried fruits were over, the brawler gave some more water to the flagellant, then pulled a fur over his naked body and stood by, watching with interest as the man quieted down into unconsciousness again.

The brawler then returned to the smaller chamber, where he had left the flagellant’s bloodied garments, and washed them, curious to know what type of warrior was that man: the several enemies Silas had crossed paths with wore very different clothing from him, and he couldn’t tell what their social status was, yet the ones with armour were easy to identify as professional warriors. Now, this man, with such simply garments, with only his fists and a flail for weapons? A brilliant fighter, and the brawler wanted to know what type of warrior he was, and could barely wait to break him, convert him… enjoy him.

Leaving the washed clothes drying on a stone, the brawler returned to the bigger chamber. The flagellant was still sleeping, and the brawler put on his stomach piece again and left, silently.

He had a favour to make.

* * *

 

Damian felt something wasn’t right. Despite the soreness all over his body, he was… comfortable. There was softness against his skin, instead of the itchy hay his bed was made of. And he felt warm, and his old ragged blanket was everything but warm. He also felt thirsty and hungry, but not as bad as he had been feeling.

Damian widened his eyes.

He wasn’t shackled, hanging by chains anymore. And there was no dried blood on him, nor sweat. The dimness prevailed, but the fog was gone.

The flagellant changed to a sitting position, abruptly, ignoring the nausea and the dizziness, and looked around frantically. He was in someone’s sleeping chambers, among blankets and furs and pillows of all shapes, a most unfit place for a man like him!

“What…?” he muttered, confused, realizing his wounds had been tended to. Outrageous!

He jumped off the bed… and his knees buckled and he fell with a yelp on a soft carpet. He pushed himself up immediately, ignoring the agonized muscles of his arms and shoulders and neck. Scrambling to his feet, Damian finally realized he had been stripped naked. He then groped his face, in stupefaction; his hood was gone as well.

Damian had suffered many obscenities, but this one took the prize; his holy face – his holy body in general, especially the most sinful parts - was not to be seen!

In his outraged stun, he ripped off the bandages covering his wounds. And he noticed a passage to another chamber. Frowning, he decided to investigate, and near the water spring he found his clothes – and his hood and collar. The flagellant dressed himself immediately with his still damp clothes, promptly ignoring as his muscles protested all the movement, then kneeled on the stones to drink water from the spring.

When his thirst was quenched, he looked around, trying to find another passage, something to get out of that place… but he found nothing.

Returning to the bigger chamber, he then tried to find his flail and the missing bits of his garments. But he found nothing – only that the chamber was ridiculously comfortable, with all those carpets and furs and pillows, and whoever owned that place was guilty of luxury and most certainly lust. Damian wailed in dismay, just imagining what kind of sinful actions usually took place on the bed he had been placed onto; he needed cleansing, urgently.

On top of that, the massive wooden trunk refused to be open, and Damian had the feeling that his missing items had been stored there.

He then tried to open the big heavy oak door, but it was locked. Letting out an angry snarl, he began to pound at the door with his shoulder, in a desperate attempt to break it open. His muscles cried in pain, but he did not hear them.

Damian growled and kept trying to break the door open, blind to any kind of pain and discomfort. He had to leave that place; he did not know where he was, yet he was sure he had to leave immediately. And he was in such a hurry, that when the door opened, he threw himself at it again and closed it.

But then the flagellant froze, realizing what he had done, and he hurriedly moved from behind the door to stand beside it, his back facing the wall and his arm within the door reach, so that he could get hold of anything that came in.

The door opened again, slowly, and Damian raised a fist. However, whoever was standing on the other side came in abruptly, already ready to face him, like they knew Damian would be standing beside the door, and held the flagellant’s raised fist while delivering a powerful punch on his stomach.

The flagellant gasped for air and fell on his knees. The door closed with a soft click and the brawler who had punched him laughed, amused:

“Recovered, are we?” he asked, and Damian concluded it was the same brawler who had bothered him while he was shackled. The flagellant was too busy trying to breathe and all he managed was to put up a clumsy, feeble fight when the brawler hooked his fingers around his collar and dragged him back into the chamber, away from the door.

Silas looked, interested, at the discarded bandages, and forced the flagellant to stand up. Damian was a head shorter than him, but matched him in built and certainly in strength. The brawler tilted his head, the apparently empty eyes of his mask scrutinizing the flagellant’s partially exposed face:

“I take it you disliked my medical care,” the brawler stated. Damian didn’t answer, and now that he was finally breathing properly again, he kicked the brawler in the knee.

The brawler frowned under his mask and grunted, moving his leg away. Seemed he would have a bit more work than what he expected, but he liked a good challenge… and by the gods, he would break this man:

“Are you sure you want to fight?” he asked the flagellant with a hint of tease. “You are still weak… your strength is an illusion…”

“Feel my resolve!” Damian barked and was his turn to land a powerful punch on the brawler’s stomach. Unfortunately for the flagellant, the brawler wore his stomach piece, and the metal took all the impact of an otherwise incapacitating strike.

Pain exploded from Damian’s knuckles, climbing all the way up his arm in burning waves. He took in a sharp breath, surprised, because _hurting himself_ _while hurting someone else_ was a first.

And that sharp breath was all the brawler needed; he hit the flagellant’s shoulder joint with his hand like a cleaver and at the same time raised his knee against the flagellant’s stomach:

“Brave, but foolish,” Silas commented and stepped back, to admire his prisoner curled on the carpets, taking in ragged breaths. “Remarkable, anyway. Who are you?”

He walked backwards, to the trunk, his eyes never leaving the flagellant. When his hand touched the heavy lid, he pressed his palm against one of the large iron latches, and just like the door, it recognized the darkness in the brawler and unlocked itself.

Damian was still trying to scramble to his feet when the brawler came back and kicked his ribcage, causing him to lose balance and fall on his side, gasping for air again:

“Who are you?” the brawler asked once more, kneeling next to the flagellant and placing bandages beside him. He held one of the flagellant’s hands and began to bandage the wound in his wrist again. “You are clearly a warrior, but you don’t have armour.”

The flagellant was momently speechless, staring in confusion, under his hood, at the brawler tending to his injuries. They were enemies! The brawler was a heathen, a creature of darkness, follower of the false gods! They should be fighting to the death, for their faith! And yet… the brawler was bandaging him with disturbing gentleness, and seemed it had been the brawler bringing Damian into this lair of comfy sin and tending to him:

“I am a holy man, you foul creature!” Damian hissed at last and tried to yank his hand away. The gentle touch turned into an iron grip, fingers digging into bruises and bitten flesh. But that caused only mild discomfort, and he kept trying to pull his hand away:

“A holy warrior?” The brawler bared his teeth in a grin. “You follow the wrong path! **I** am a holy warrior, and if you convert-“ The brawler couldn’t finish, as the flagellant took the chance to kick the side of his head.

What followed was a little struggle, with tangled limbs and attempts at strangulation. But the flagellant wasn’t fully recovered, and though he ignored the excruciating pain of his abused muscles and the discomfort of his wounds and recent blows, he began to feel nauseated and dizzy, thanks to his two days of complete starvation.

In the end, the brawler was on top of the flagellant, pinning him down between his legs and securing his arms stretched to the side. Damian’s muscles complained loudly when forced into that position.

The brawler bent forwards, his face hovering inches away from the flagellant’s, and Damian flinched when the brawler spoke and that unholy breath tickled his holy skin:

“ _What_ are you, fool?” Silas asked, the same hint of tease from moments before. “A warrior, certainly, but what kind of warrior?”

Damian tried to wriggle, discovered his body didn’t want to obey. He was nauseated and slightly disoriented, and closed his eyes:

“A flagellant,” he replied in a hoarse voice. “And I wish you luck trying to get anything from me.”

The brawler nodded, delighted; a flagellant. Worse than a warrior: an extremist! And he would convert that flagellant, would make him a follower of the old gods… of extreme devotion. He would drive that man to the right path, and he would become such a fervent cultist that, with luck, the gods would favour him and he would become a priest… and he would certainly share his ancient knowledge with Silas, favour him as well in all ways possible. The brawler licked his lips, briefly running his eyes along Damian’s body, feeling a renewed spark of possessiveness towards the flagellant:

“I could simply call an acolyte to enchant you…” the brawler told quietly, his croaky voice coated with the same dangerous niceness. “But I think…” He stood up, still holding Damian’s arms, and dragged him to the trunk. He opened it and from inside it retrieved the shackles. “… we will both enjoy breaking you the traditional way.”

Damian just stretched his slightly chapped lips into a grin:

“Rot in the unholy pit of vermin you came from,” the flagellant replied, sweetly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feedback and kudos are always welcome!


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *EDIT* A blessed soul made fanart for this fic!!! ;-; I'm just so over the moon!!  
> Go check that quality art at the end of the chapter!!

Damian was secured in a hogtie. The chain of his ankle shackles was crossed over the chain of his wrist shackles, and even though the chains weren’t necessarily short, they kept his arms stretched back, and soon enough his already abused muscles began to complain again.

But what bothered the flagellant the most was that, after securing him, the brawler had left the chambers… and had left him lying on the comfortable carpets. Being restrained in a hogtie, still slightly nauseous and dizzy, and with his abused muscles forced into an uncomfortable position, didn’t stop Damian from trying to kick away the carpets and expose the cobble stone floor underneath them, so that he could lie directly on top of it.

In the end, the flagellant did nothing but harm himself further: the muscles in his shoulders and arms felt like they were tearing apart, there were bloodstains on his bandaged wrists, his ankles felt bruised and he had only uncovered a small portion of cobble stone. Still, he lied his head over the exposed stone, victoriously.

And there stood the flagellant, with no means to count the time, until he finally fell asleep, trying to appease his nausea.

* * *

 

Silas returned sometime later, after patrolling for a while in the dungeons. He opened the door of his chambers quietly and got in. He immediately noticed the flagellant and the mess of carpets around him. He tilted his head; if the flagellant was so eager for… discomfort… he could gladly deliver it now. But he opted for waiting until the morning; the skylight in the circular hall had let him know it was night outside, and he was slightly tired from having done the acolyte a favour and then having to struggle with the flagellant.

Silas made his way to the bed, quietly, and lied down silently. He had trouble sleeping, though; the flagellant, he wanted to break him. Break him into thousands of pieces, then put everything back together in the correct fashion, convert him, bring him to the right path. And maybe the gods had noticed what Silas was doing, and maybe they would help him and favour him as well. The thought of rising through the ranks was highly appealing, but the thought of rising _accompanied,_ of having a match in power and rank to favour him and to favour… was equally appealing.

Breaking the flagellant would be a very interesting challenge for him: Silas doubted he would manage anything only by physical torture – by the looks of it, the flagellant would rather die than convert. Something Silas would do, too. So, the brawler thought is best option would be to target the flagellant’s mind, because if Silas were a prisoner… that would be his greatest concern: the exploitation of his fears, of the things he didn’t know and couldn’t explain.

Silas crossed his arms behind his head, over the pillow, smirking to himself. He would push the flagellant to the edge, weaken him, see what scared him; from then on, he would control him.

* * *

 

Damian, lying on his side, was awaken by a booted foot colliding with his stomach:

“Rise and shine,” the brawler growled and kneeled beside Damian. And before the flagellant could do anything, Silas forced water and a handful of dried fruits into his mouth, then clamped his hand over Damian’s mouth to make sure he would swallow.

The flagellant, startled and sore and confused, didn’t quite realize what happened to him.

But he became fully conscious of himself and his surroundings when the brawler unshackled his ankles and pulled him up by his collar:

“A bit of fun, now,” Silas announced as he walked to the storage trunk, towing the flagellant. He opened the trunk and picked up Damian’s flail. “Near the water. I don’t want blood on my carpets.”

Damian grunted as the brawler pushed him towards the smaller chamber. His legs felt weak and his ankle joints and ligaments were having trouble in functioning and sustaining the flagellant’s full weight. He felt a shiver when they entered the smaller chamber, chilly and humid, and grunted again when the brawler forced him to his knees and began to unwrap the bandages on his sides, shoulders and wrists.

With a satisfied grin, Silas then proceeded to flog Damian’s back. And his satisfied grin just widened as he landed blow after blow and the flagellant was simply… irresponsive, kneeling on the cold stone with his hands shackled behind his back like it was nothing.

And for Damian, it wasn’t. The feeling of his skin and flesh tearing apart and of blood running down his back was simply… something that was there. It wasn’t pain anymore, not after so many years. He closed his eyes, his lips moving as silent prayers left them. Suffering and pain, blood and salvation. Damian could spend hours like that, destroying his body while his mind was somewhere else, peaceful, praying and letting the Light know he was doing his job. Sometime later and he would stop feeling something at all, and his back would simply go numb.

Yet before he began to feel numb, the flogging stopped abruptly, and his flail was replaced by a big and warm hand pressed over his wounds. And that, someone touching him, was uncomfortable. Damian stumbled on his praying, startled again, and wriggled away from the offensive touch. Behind him the brawler laughed and held him by the back of the collar:

“Shy, are we?” he asked and pressed his free hand on Damian’s wounded back again:

“There was once a man who was said to be possessed by a demon,” the flagellant began to tell, quietly, and the brawler tilted his head to the side in amusement. “But in fact, they were several demons, but responded collectively to the name Legion: «My name is Legion, for we are many.»” He craned his head, until he was able to see the brawler’s face looming above him. “Of course, it is not your case…”

“Why is that?” Silas was grinning wildly now:

“You are so wretched not even a demon would want to possess you.”

“Is that your best insult?” The brawler chuckled, moved his hand from Damian’s collar to his neck and wrapped his fingers around it, softly at first. “You might have to withdraw your words, one day…!” And his grip increased, making the flagellant gasp for air and rattle the chains of his shackles in an attempt at breaking his arms free and move the brawler’s hand away from his neck. But in a matter of seconds Damian’s body went limp and the brawler stepped away from the unconscious flagellant.

Silas went into the bigger chamber, to the trunk. Among his medical supplies he kept a large vial of a substance that was great to disinfect wounds at the modest price of great discomfort: vinegar. He also picked up the discarded ankle shackles. Humming to himself, he returned to the smaller chamber.

Damian was regaining consciousness again, lying on the ground coughing, rattling his chains in a renewed attempt at freeing himself to rub the soreness away from his throat: that was a type of pain and discomfort he was not used to:

“Feeling better?” Silas asked, croaky voice dangerously concerned. Towering over Damian, he bent down, grabbed the flagellant by the collar to pull him to his knees again and began to sprinkle vinegar on the flagellant’s injured back.

The contact of vinegar on the open flesh made Damian hiss, but that feeling of burn he could take. It was quite similar to the feeling he experimented once he was done whipping himself and praying. It was the feeling of cleanliness, of purity washing over him, destroying his and everyone else’s sins that he carried on his shoulders.

A hand on his hooded head forced him down, and Damian, on his knees, unable to use his arms to balance himself, fell forwards, face-first on the stone with a yelp:

“Since you disliked my medical care, I won’t bother you again with it,” Silas told casually and reached out for Damian’s ankles. Yet the flagellant moved his legs away, tried to kick him and unbalance him, make him fall into the small pool of fresh water. Damian managed to turn to lie on his side and, now that he could see where his enemy was, tried to attack him with renewed vigour. The brawler thought the flagellant’s attempt at resisting was endearing, but he didn’t have the time to play. He swung one of the shackles at the flagellant’s middle, a simple but effective means to stop any male opponent, and not even Damian was able to ignore that kind of pain.

With his opponent momently stunned, Silas hurried to shackle Damian’s ankles again:

“I advise you to convert as soon as possible, flagellant,” the brawler warned, his croaky voice still dangerously sweet, and he left to the bigger chamber.

Damian lied on the cold surface, taking in quick shallow breaths, curled over himself. But as the pain eased, he stretched his body to a less undignified position. This time, he wasn’t restrained in a hogtie. All around him was the sound of water running, but he would occasionally hear the brawler in the bigger chamber. He thought the brawler had gone to get something else to torture him, but time passed by, and he heard the brawler leave the sleeping chambers.

The flagellant was alone.

He tried to scramble to his feet, but discovered he was increasingly sore and felt… not weak, but sluggish. From the soreness, his muscles didn’t want to move, didn’t want to get bitten by the shackles again. Treacherous body!

And so, Damian simply lied there, thinking furiously about his situation, on how to escape, on why the brawler was being so… strange. Giving him breaks, giving him food and water, barely speaking at all about his false gods and wrong religion.

What kind of ordeal was that?

* * *

 

Damian didn’t remember falling asleep, but he woke up with a startle as the brawler kicked his side and pulled him to his knees by his collar, forcing water and food into his mouth:

“Rise and shine,” Silas greeted, grinning wildly.

And, for a while, he stood behind the flagellant, cracking the flail against his injured back.  Again, Damian didn’t mind. Punishing raw flesh wasn’t new for him:

“You say you are a holy man…” the brawler said, his croaky voice low and way too gentle to mean any good. He ceased to flail Damian’s back and moved to stand before him. The flagellant, on his knees, stretched his back and looked up defyingly. He was shaking slightly, and Silas doubted the flagellant himself was even aware of it. “… and yet your fellows abandoned you to your luck…!”

Damian said nothing, just grinned. Of course his fellows had abandoned him to his luck… They couldn’t quite grasp the concept and importance of his holiness to treat him with the same deference they treated vestals and crusaders. The flagellant had stopped caring about that long ago and had learned to accept his fate, for suffering wasn’t exclusively physical.

Besides, dying for the Light was all he cared about. Alone or not, that didn’t matter so much.

Silas hit Damian across the face with the hilt of the flail, brutally, causing the flagellant to lose balance and fall on his side:

“Convert and you shall have the respect you deserve!” the brawler proceeded calmly and turned Damian to lie on his back with the tip of his foot. The flagellant spat and coughed blood; his nose was broken, bleeding, and his lips were split, and the spiked shaft had left small cuts across his cheeks. Still, he kept grinning, showing bloodstained teeth. “You would begin as my equivalent, but I have no doubts you would easily rise through the ranks, be favoured by the gods… What favour has your Light granted you?”

“A big one,” Damian replied and spat more blood. “To see your face when I refuse to convert to your false religion and die in glory for mine.”

“I am not very sure about you dying gloriously…” The brawler sighed, feigning disappointment. He began to crack the flail against the flagellant’ chest, repeatedly, and Damian clenched his jaw as the flail tore his skin and flesh, as the stone under him made friction with his wounded back and as his full weight on his arms shackled behind his back made his abused muscles scream in agony for being stretched like that.

When the flagellant’s chest was awash in blood, Silas stopped flailing him and crouched next to his head. With a swift motion, he pulled Damian’s hood down and began to grope his face, accessing the damage that had been done, feeling swells on the flagellant’s nose and lips. Damian shook his face and tried to wriggle away from all that touching, but once again, the brawler reached for his neck, curling his fingers around it slowly yet strongly, like an anaconda squeezing its prey to death. The flagellant tried once more to fight back that constricting hand, to get away, but the more he struggled the more the brawler closed his fingers around his neck.

Damian began to cough, trying to breathe:

“If you don’t want to convert, then I just need to call an acolyte, and she will enchant you…” Silas told, looking at the flagellant’s face, his masked head looming threateningly above the flagellant. Despite himself, Damian widened his eyes. “And you will turn into an eldritch being, a sacred creature of Darkness, and your mind will still be there, you will be fully conscious, but you won’t be able to command your actions…”

Damian choked on his own blood; his lips were still bleeding, the blood pooling in his open mouth as he tried to breathe. The brawler let go of his now lightly bruised neck:

“Convert,” he advised, stood up and walked away with Damian’s flail.

There was no vinegar that day, and the flagellant was left alone again, sorer and bloodier. And Damian realized… it was cold.

But he ignored all that, thinking about what the brawler had told him, about… doing black magic on him. Would the Light forgive him and still save if soul, if that happened? Would the Light understand Damian was still loyal, and had been made a slave for his loyalty? Of course the Light would… the Light was understanding, and caring, and loving. The Light would know. Being turned into a monster would be a sacrifice as good as being tortured to death.

He would be forgiven. The flagellant had no reasons to be… afraid.

* * *

 

A couple of days followed, with the brawler flailing Damian, the flagellant being irresponsive to the whole treatment and then being left alone, uncared for, in the chilly chamber with the water spring.

However, Silas noticed with a certain interest, some of the flagellant’s wounds were infecting: as he touched the wounded areas, he began to feel swellings that uninfected wounds didn’t wave, and a substance that was a bit too pasty to be blood.

And the flagellant seemed to have shrunken, and he would shake occasionally to the point of rattling his chains.

Yet Damian was reaching a point he only reached when engaged in a serious fight with an enemy. He felt rapturous, his split lips permanently stretched in a maniac grin, and the more the brawler whipped him, the louder he prayed. Until at some point he couldn’t form words anymore and all that would leave his lips were ecstatic moans, and his heart hammered madly in his chest. That pain, so intense, filled him with pleasure: he was suffering and fighting for the Light, and there was nothing better than that.

But despite his trance, the flagellant felt a bit feverish, weak, and going from cold to hot in rather short periods of time.

Little after noticing Damian’s wounds were infecting, the brawler went to crouch in front of him, his head tilted to the side. And the flagellant still looked at him with defiance, though shaking and making himself smaller because of the pain:

“Your resistance is remarkable,” Silas stated with honesty. “But it doesn’t have to be this way. Convert, and I shall treat you with the respect a man like you deserves.”

“No,” the flagellant replied:

“If you keep resisting, I will call an acolyte, and she will enchant you…” the brawler threatened again.

Yet Damian just snickered; that didn’t scare him anymore. It would be like dying. The Light would understand, and would forgive him. His noble sacrifice would be accepted.

The brawler knitted his eyebrows together under his mask. He had expected that the thought of being turned into a creature of the old religion and be aware of that would be… terrifying for an extremist like the flagellant. Silas would be terrified with the perspective of being turned into a creature of the Light and be fully conscious and have no power over his body and actions.

The thought that the flagellant did not fear _him_ infuriated the brawler: Silas had the power to decide how much pain the flagellant would feel, had the power to let him live or simply kill him, had the power to fulfil his threat and call for an acolyte… and still the flagellant defied him, refused to break, made the whole thing **sound** like he wasn’t afflicted at all!

With a wrathful growl, the brawler slapped Damian across the face, with enough strength to unbalance him and make him fall to the side.

How to mine those walls and make them crumble?

Silas then had an idea.

Grinning, he wrapped his fingers around the flagellant’s collar and forced him to stand on shaky legs:

“I think you need to cool down a little,” Silas explained and pushed the flagellant into the small pool of water.

Falling backwards into the water, into the unknown, with his arms and ankles restrained, had the flagellant widening his eyes in fear. The surface of the water felt hard against his body, until it broke and engulfed him in freezing cold, forcing him down to the rock bottom of the pool. Damian couldn’t breathe, couldn’t even move properly to scramble to his feet and resurface.

And how deep was he? He wasn’t a great swimmer, would he manage to float back to the surface? And in chains?

His lungs begged for air, seemed about to explode. His wide eyes stung from the coldness of the water. And all he could do was lying there, helpless, among stones from the fallen wall the water sprang from.

He saw a black silhouette approach him; the brawler’s legs, covered in black garments. And then an arm reached for his collar and he was pulled up, almost effortlessly, and forced to stand on his feet.

Damian coughed and took in deep, desperate breaths. The water reached only his waist.

Holding his collar, the brawler laughed, and there was something wicked in his laughter. He climbed out of the pool, forcing Damian to follow him and to lie down on the cold stone by the water again.

And again, Damian was promptly left alone. Wounded and sore and soaked and cold. The ecstatic feeling was gone and, for the first time in many years, the flagellant was well aware of the damage that had been done to him.

 _It hurt_ , and he caught himself wishing at least his arms were free, so that he could tend to his wounds, make it bearable again. And that he had his old ragged blanket to protect him from the gnawing cold, and that he had a bit of itchy hay to lay on instead of stone.

And hopefully, the brawler wouldn’t throw him into the water again…

Taking in calmer breaths now, the flagellant realized the weakness in his thoughts and immediately cursed himself. Through pain and suffering came mercy and salvation. And if he was to be drowned, then he would drown, no matter how deep inside the thought scared him.

He would be somewhere better, in the end. Somewhere dry and warm, and bright, and he would carry no more weights.

* * *

 

Silas left the flagellant alone for the rest of the day. He remained in the bigger chamber, lying on his comfortable bed, surrounded by furs and blankets and pillows and bolsters, snacking dried fruits with satisfaction.

The temptation of going back to the smaller chamber was big, but patience was a quality he was praised for, and Silas liked to live up to the expectations others had on him.

He had left Damian’s flail at the edge of the bed and reached out for it, suddenly curious. He had used that flail for some days now, but had never really paid attention to the design of the weapon. Now that he was studying it, he realized it was heavy, but well-balanced; the shaft had the ideal length, and the pommel was big enough. With the tips of his fingers, Silas felt the several spikes along the shaft, and concluded the area free of spikes was big enough for just one hand. The flail was supposed to be wielded with just one hand, then. Silas nodded in appreciation; considerable strength would be required to hold the flail in a fight and use it properly. He then touched the large iron ring from where hung a smaller ring, to which were attached three large and heavy chains, relatively long. From each chain hung a spiked ball.

Silas kept touching the flail, his head tilted to the side curiously. Indeed, a cruel weapon designed to make hideous wounds. There were bruises and fresh scars on the brawler’s arm, where the flail’s chains had curled around his arm viciously and where the spiked balls had landed a blow.

Skill should be required to wield that flail, to crack it against an opponent but also to make it curl around limbs or necks and pull them – breaking them or dragging their owner closer.

Possessiveness sparked again on the brawler, and he chuckled, imagining how interesting would be to spar with the flagellant, what kind of fighting knowledge they could exchange, and how to retribute each other the favour.

* * *

 

On top of all pain and discomfort, Damian was too cold to fall asleep. It started with shivers, then shaking, until he was chattering his teeth. Therefore, when the brawler finally showed up, Damian was fully awakened and incredibly exhausted.

This time there was no water and food forced down his throat. Instead, he was immediately pulled to his feet, by the collar. He couldn’t help but groan in pain and that seemed to please the brawler.

Yet, the moment Damian was standing on shaky legs… he was promptly pushed back.

And the flagellant fell into the water again, and experienced the same dread, the same helplessness. While submerged, he tried to think about the Light – it always brought him peace and comfort. But for the time being, all he wanted was to breathe, to stand up, and he couldn’t focus, couldn’t pray in his mind, couldn’t-

He was pulled up, abruptly, and he coughed and gasped for air, his eyes wide in fear. The hood had fallen, the water clamping it on the sharp prongs of his collar, exposing him to the brawler:

“I have just realized… I do not know your name!” the brawler exclaimed, his croaky voice highly amused. And there was danger in that amusement, and Damian tried to wriggle away, struggle, kick him, _do something_ … but he was shackled, and the brawler held his collar in an iron grip. “My name is Silas. What is yours?”

The flagellant didn’t answer, and that made the brawler smirk:

“Rude, aren’t we?”

And Damian was forced on his knees and to bent under the water. The brawler remained there, by his side, one hand keeping the flagellant’s head submersed and the other holding his collar.

Damian tried to move, tried to escape. But he couldn’t: hurt and sore and tired and cold and hungry and weak.

He wanted to breathe. He needed to breathe. His eyes stung because of the contact with the cold water and because of anguished tears. Death, looking at him in the face, was gruesome. And Death was so close… he needed to breathe! Air, water, it didn’t matter, he just needed to _breathe_! And his heart was beating so furiously, how come it hadn’t jumped out of his chest yet? But the Light was watching over him, he would be fine, he would-

His head was pulled up and he coughed, on his knees, the water almost reaching his neck. He could breathe air again as soon as he coughed all that water!

“What is your name, flagellant?” the brawler, standing behind him and still holding him, asked.

However… the flagellant still refused to answer. He would die… but he would not break. He would make the Light proud, despite his fear.

Silas snickered and forced Damian’s head under the water again. And the flagellant kept trying to fight back, to go back to the surface, to breathe. He could hear his heart pound in his ears and wondered why the Light was taking so long to take him… he had chosen to suffer, yes… but… he was starting to feel tired. He just wanted it all to end.

His head was pulled out of the water again and he coughed and whimpered:

“Your name?” the brawler asked again, calmly. “I am going to stop this, if you tell me your name. You do not have to go through this again. Just tell me your name.”

“Liar…” Damian gasped. It was a lie, a vile trick. The brawler would not stop torturing him. And if now was time for the flagellant to die, so be it.

Silas sighed and forced the flagellant’s head under the water one more time. The struggle was weakening, and the brawler knew the flagellant would either let himself die or simply tell him his name. For the greater good, Silas prayed to his gods that the man he was threatening to drown wasn’t stupid to the point of letting himself die for nothing.

The brawler pulled Damian’s head out of the water again to let him breathe. The flagellant was crying by then, in despair and frustration: why couldn’t he just _die for the Light_?

“You do realize we’ll spend as much time as I want _here_ …?” the brawler whispered next to his ear, and he sounded extremely pleased. “Today, right now or later… tomorrow… after tomorrow… And I just want to know your name!”

Damian just breathed and sobbed. And he was back under water again.

* * *

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please, let me know what you think.  
> I'd like a bit of motivation. :( Are you people enjoying? Do you hate it? You don't like my take on the Flagellant? You don't like my brawler? I need to know; if I don't, I can't make it better!


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you kind people for the feedback and kudos!  
> And check out the gorgeous fanart at the end of chapter 3!!

Damian began to grow numb and the sound of his heartbeat, pounding in his ears, began to fade away. He breathed in. Water. But at least his lungs were filled with something, didn’t feel like they would explode, didn’t beg him to breathe. Around him the water was still cold and everything began to darken.

Would the Light finally come to him?

The flagellant’s head was pulled out of the water, but he didn’t want to breathe in air again. His lungs were already full, and if he coughed the water and breathed in air again, the brawler would force him under the water again. Damian didn’t want that.

Chuckling, Silas dragged the semi-conscious flagellant out of the water, lied him flat on the stone and compressed his chest several times, forcing the flagellant to cough.

And Damian did cough, nearly choking in the water he was just getting rid of, while at the same time breathing in, shallow and desperate, unable to move to a better position other than lying flat on his back.

He felt… exhausted. The previous days of torture all weighted on him, aggravated by the stress and panic of being nearly drowned. Repeatedly. Damian closed his eyes, sobbing quietly. This was humiliating. And he felt so cold… and his muscles hurt so much…

“What is your name?” the brawler asked again, patiently, and Damian could feel his enemy’s eyes on him.

The brawler would not kill him, Damian realized with dread. He was doomed to languish, instead of dying a glorious death for the Light. He would still die for the Light, though… but it would be completely different from everything he had imagined.

Silas waited for an answer that didn’t come, and that made him frown. He knew the flagellant was weaker now – especially physically, now mentally…? Would he still die rather than… simply telling the brawler his name? If knowing the flagellant’s name was revealing to be this problematic… then breaking him to convert him would be even more challenging than what Silas had thought.

His frown deepened as he felt the coldness of the flagellant’s skin. And the flagellant’s wounds, infecting… he would die, if Silas insisted on that procedure.

Silas sighed:

“If you tell me your name, I won’t force you into the water again, and I will nurse you back to health,” he promised, honestly. Maybe he would get the flagellant to trust him a little.

Damian licked his lips nervously, letting the brawler’s words sink in. Poisonous words! The brawler was lying! What was the point of torturing him, then heal him? No, something wasn’t right!

However… Damian just wanted it to stop. This was… the most extreme challenge that he had ever faced, it raised fears he didn’t know how to tame. Would the Light curse him?

The flagellant coughed. Either way… the brawler was lying. Damian would die, sooner or later, bleeding out or drowning, sacrificed or tortured:

“D-Damian…” the flagellant grumbled.

Silas grinned victoriously. He pressed his palms on the shackles, that creaked open:

“It wasn’t that bad, was it?” Silas purred and undressed the flagellant of his soaked clothes. Damian curled up instinctively as the brawler left to the bigger chamber.

The flagellant felt both confused and humiliated. Was the brawler going to get something to kill him? And if he was going to die, why had he been stripped naked? This was the biggest offense that has ever been done to him!

But the brawler returned, bringing a blanket and a cloth. Humming to himself, he submerged the cloth in the water and proceeded to wash all of Damian’s wounds carefully, removing persistent bloodstains from skin and pasty substance from some of the wounds. Then Silas helped the flagellant up, wrapped him in the blanket and helped him to walk into the larger chamber.

Damian, bewildered, complied without even trying to resist. He couldn’t quite believe it when the brawler sat him on the bed and retrieved vinegar and ointments and bandages from the trunk, and then applied the vinegar and ointments on Damian’s wounds and bandaged them. He couldn’t quite believe he wasn’t shackled anymore, and that he was being wrapped in more blankets and furs and he was starting to feel slightly warm again.

And the brawler brought him water, and dried fruits coated with honey, and then left him alone in the big chamber.

* * *

 

Damian woke up with a startle, feeling something next to him. He mumbled something and tried to wriggle away, but a pair of big yet gentle hands held his shoulders:

“No, no, no… You need rest!”

The flagellant froze and glanced over his shoulder, through heavy eyelids. The brawler was sitting on the bed next to him, and though he wore his mask and black garments, the claws and stomach piece were gone. The flagellant grunted something intelligible and tried to shake off the brawler’s hands.

He was then reminded that the brawler’s gentle touch turned into the most vicious of grips in the blink of an eye, and he stood still, feeling fingers dig deep into abused muscles:

“You need rest,” the brawler stated, and his voice was as hard as steel.

Despite himself, Damian opted to remain still. And the brawler’s touch became gentle again, and he rubbed at the muscles his fingers had dug into, noticing with interest that touching appeared to be very uncomfortable for the flagellant, judging at how Damian tensed up.

Silence stretched between them. The flagellant blinked his eyes several times, trying to ease the weight from his eyelids, but he wasn’t successful. However, he became slowly aware of his body, of how it felt a bit too hot, and sticky from sweat and ointments, and all his sore muscles… but the _pain_ … it had been replaced by big discomfort, and Damian could deal with that. He was also aware that the brawler was sitting too close to him, and that the blankets and furs were too soft for his liking, and there was even a pillow under his head.

He wasn’t used to feeling softness and comfort around him, and the sheer thought of him lying in comfort, and warmth, and of his wounds tended to and bandaged, was enough to stress him and make him wriggle away again.

And again the brawler’s vicious grip on his shoulders:

“Why can’t you just be quiet??” Silas hissed, slightly irritated. Why couldn’t the flagellant simply… surrender, _be weak_? Why was he still fighting, if he was feverish and wounded? He stood no chance, it was simply stupid!

“Why don’t you just kill me?” the flagellant asked in a hoarse, weak voice, and the brawler forced him to turn around, lie on his back, and then lie on his shoulder again so that they were face to face. Silas tilted his head and smiled, amused:

“And who told you I want you dead, Damian?” he asked and the flagellant grimaced when the brawler said his name. Silas then placed a hand on the flagellant’s forehead. “Hmm… feverish, aren’t we?”

“You and who else?” Damian retorted, and then flinched involuntarily when the brawler held his chin:

“Ah, but you are recovering quite well!” Silas laughed. “Yesterday you were so pitiful, so sluggish… But today you’re toughing up again, hmm?”

Damian watched in a mix of confusion and fear as the brawler lied down on his side as well. He didn’t understand what the brawler wanted from him. He had made it clear he was not going to convert, that he would rather die… and yet, the brawler seemed to ignore that. It was some sort of trick, there was a trap somewhere…

The flagellant nearly jumped out of his skin when fingers began to trace his face, and for a moment he almost succeeded in wriggling out of his cocoon of blankets and furs. Yet the brawler chuckled and wrapped him up again:

“Curious little thing…” he muttered, and it was either fondness or amusement in his voice. Whatever is was, offended Damian: he wasn’t a «curious little thing», whatever than meant; he was a flagellant, a holy man, a follower of the Light and saviour of souls, he was both feared and loathed, he was a fountain of spiritual healing and of wrath, and he was not to be wrapped in warm blankets and furs, and not to be laid on a comfortable bed, and not to have his wounds tended to! His mission was only one – to suffer!

Then it hit him.

That was _torture_! The brawler was torturing him, a new kind of torture, and a most unpleasing one!!

“I will not break!!” Damian roared in his weak voice as the brawler kept tucking him in. “You can torture me all you want, but I will NOT break!”

“Torture, hm? We’ll see that…” Silas replied calmly and pushed himself up.

And, ignoring Damian’s protests, tended to his wounds.

* * *

                                                                                                            

The flagellant revealed to be an insufferable nuisance the moment the fever lowered and a bit of his strength returned: whenever Silas turned his back, Damian would crawl off the bed, wriggle out of his cocoon of blankets and furs and try to rip off the bandages covering his wounds; he had to be forced to eat and drink water; he would try to fight off any kind of touch coming from the brawler; and every time Silas left the sleeping chambers for a while, he would come back to find the flagellant lying on exposed cobble stone, naked among messy carpets, rid of bandages and shivering in cold – and most certainly hungry and thirsty. And all this would happen repeatedly throughout the entire day, if Silas didn’t keep a constant eye on Damian.

Yet Silas was patient, and since the flagellant was so interested in wearing himself off over nothing, he would let him do it. Damian would grow weak, and would do all the hard work himself. The brawler simply kept tending to the flagellant, moving him from the floor to the bed and forcing him to eat and drink.

And some days later Damian finally realized he was doing no good to himself, that by no means he would recover enough to be able to fight off the brawler and escape. He still had fever, his muscles still ached and he still felt exhausted. So, he mentally begged the Light for forgiveness and promised that, once he was healed, he would keep on fighting off his heathen enemy.

But for the time being, he gave up and allowed the brawler to take care of him.

* * *

 

“How did you got these scars?” Silas asked quietly, when he finished wrapping new bandages around Damian’s torso. The flagellant had been calmer, simply lying on the bed and accepting to eat and drink everything the brawler gave him. Silas was happy with the progress, and that he had been able to use the flagellant’s stubbornness for his own profit. Now it would be a matter of time to gain the flagellant’s trust and set him on the right path… and hopefully, Silas wouldn’t need to do anything else besides talking.

Damian clenched his jaw and looked away.

Silas sighed, annoyed, and maybe reminding the flagellant he still wasn’t on safe ground would be a good idea. He grabbed Damian’s chin and forced the flagellant to look back at him:

“I made a question, I want an answer,” he hissed.

The flagellant frowned, but decided it would be wiser to simply answer, regain his strength fully and defeat the brawler when he least expected. Yes, he could play along – the Light would take no offense, the Light would understand his strategy:

“I did them myself,” Damian grunted, and Silas immediately released his chin and pulled a blanket over him:

“Hm, see? It wasn’t that bad to give me an answer, was it?” Silas said casually. He stood up from the bed and went to his makeshift table, from where he returned with water, dried fruits and a slice of smoked meat. He sat at the edge of the bed again, next to the flagellant, and handed him the bowl with water. “Can you drink by yourself?”

With a grunt, the flagellant held the bowl with shaky hands and managed to take it to his lips:

“But why did you do this to yourself? I thought these were battle-scars,” Silas proceeded, and once the flagellant had drunk the water, handed him another smaller bowl with dried fruits. Damian couldn’t help but chuckle, dryly:

“Battle-scars? I’m not a warrior,” he told, and that made Silas frown in confusion.

He had heard about the flagellants, about them being extremists. But that was it: extremists. Of what sort, Silas – and the lower ranks of the cult – had no idea. Damian had the physique of a warrior, and the resilience of one, so the brawler had immediately thought Damian was a warrior:

“I thought-“

“I am a holy man,”

“I thought flagellants were a warrior class,” the brawler explained, slightly embarrassed with his lack of knowledge about the enemy… but it didn’t matter, did it? Damian could fight, could endure pain, was an extremist: it was simply a matter of conversion, be he a warrior or not. Still, it was impressive that the flagellant’s flail was meant to be used especially on himself. Silas tilted his head as Damian chewed the dried fruits slowly:

“If you are not a holy warrior, then what kind of holy man are you?”

“A flagellant…” Damian replied with a sly grin, but at the same time expected the brawler to snap at him and punch him in the face. Such didn’t happen, though, and the brawler gave him the slice of smoked meat:

“And your holy purpose is to scar yourself?” Silas shook his head. “Pathetic, you are a waste! Convert, and you shall have a most dignified position and-“

“I save the souls of thousands through the martyrdom of my flesh,” Damian grunted. “There is no more dignified position than mine.”

That made the brawler laugh, and his laughter was booming and startled the flagellant:

“If so, then why did your fellows abandon you?” Silas asked, highly amused, and thumbed the flagellant’s cheek just to annoy him. “If they recognized the importance of your position, they would have died to protect you! But no! They fled, they abandoned you!”

Damian didn’t reply, simply chewed his slice of smoked meat. The brawler’s words were poisonous, but Damian was now immune to the poison. When he was younger, it had hurt and angered him that everyone was so ungrateful to him, so uncaring… but in the course of years the flagellant had come to the conclusion his task was too great to be understood and properly appreciated, and now he relished on the feeling of knowing something of importance that no one else knew – _his_ importance, _his_ holiness.

“It must hurt, must make you angry… not being appreciated for your work,” Silas said, interrupting the flagellant’s thoughts. Damian looked at the brawler, who had tilted his head and whose eyes – the apparently empty eyes of his mask – scrutinized him, giving Damian the unpleasant feeling that the brawler could see through him, and there was nothing he could hide. “To carry such a burden alone and see no gratitude around you… To be so selfless…”

The flagellant looked away. The proximity of the brawler and the course his words were taking were making Damian uncomfortable. The brawler was right… but that had been long ago, when Damian was too young to understand his own greatness. It had been a tortuous path, but the Light had guided him away from rancour and selfishness… and it was as the brawler said: Damian was selfless, and he did not regret it.

Silas sighed, raised a hand and rested it on top of Damian’s head, feeling his short hair with the tips of his fingers. He felt the flagellant jerk his head away, and it confused him how such an imposing man had chosen to destroy himself for the sake of others, unappreciated, and who had been talked by the church into believing any kind of comfort was _torture_.

What kind of deity was that of Damian’s, that asked for such sacrifices and gave nothing back?

But Silas would set the flagellant on the right path: he would convert him, take that physique and turn him into a proper warrior; take that devotion and direct it to the right way; make sure he would be praised and rewarded for his spirit of self-sacrifice, but that also no such burden would be required of him any longer. Silas felt again a spark of possessiveness, and ruffled Damian’s short hair; and he would also show the flagellant a man of his category _deserved_ all that was comfortable and pleasant:

“Convert, and you shall be treated the right way,” Silas promised.

The flagellant said nothing.

 

* * *

 

Bed-ridden, with no way to tell days and nights apart, the flagellant began to pay close attention to the brawler’s routine, because at least he appeared to know when was day and when was night: when Silas lied on the bed next to him and turned his back at him, it meant it was night and time to sleep; and when Silas raised and walked around the chamber, or simply sat on the bed next to Damian, it meant it was day. Yet the brawler would leave the flagellant alone sometimes, and would be absent for what felt like an eternity, and in those moments time blurred together and it bothered Damian greatly.

But the flagellant recovered; his fever vanished, his wounds healed and his strength returned. When he noticed his strength was coming back, the moment he was alone in the chambers he jumped to his feet, only to fall ungraciously as his legs succumbed to his weight. He tried to stand again, and he did so in shaky legs, and the first thing he did when he was able to stand was to stumble into the smaller chamber, where his clothes had been left.

That night, when Silas returned, he found the flagellant dressed again, hood and collar included, sprawled on the cobble stone floor among a mess of carpets.

The brawler chuckled and strode to the flagellant:

“Recovered, are we?” he asked and pulled the flagellant up by the arms, being careful not to hurt him with his iron claws:

“You sound ridiculous talking like that…” Damian grunted and allowed the brawler to practically drag him to the bed, because his legs were just too sore to take him on their own:

“And you _are_ ridiculous by flogging yourself for nothing,” Silas replied and removed Damian’s hood and collar. “Besides having a problem about lying on beds, I take it you have a problem about your face being exposed…?”

“I am a holy man, my face is not to be seen!” Damian complained, because having his face bare was an offence almost as big as being stripped naked.

Yet the brawler laughed and discarded his claws to the floor, then sat at the edge of the bed and leaned on the flagellant, who tried to shrink into the bed:

“But your upper half is exposed…” Silas stated, his croaky voice low, and he traced a random scar down Damian’s chest. The flagellant wriggled away, furious; the moment he was recovered from just lying on a bed, that brawler would regret the day he was born!

Silas tilted his head and reached out for the flagellant again, resting a hand on his shoulder:

“And you have a problem with being touched, as well…” he stated. “Who did this to you?”

“Especially if it’s _you_ touching me…” Damian grunted and disappeared under a fur. But he did hate to be touched. After so many years, the feeling of something other than his flail was just… wrong. Sinful.

The brawler snorted, lied on the bed facing Damian:

“Now, one day you might have to take it back…” He grinned widely, showing his sharp canine teeth, and licked his lips. “Convert, and be treated as you deserve.”

“You waste your time, brawler…”

* * *

 

Damian figured Silas kept things inside the storage trunk - besides the iron claws. Damian's flail and the rest of his garments had to be there as well.

The brawler was becoming very insistent on converting Damian, and the flagellant began to wonder if nagging him was also part of the torture. Besides, the brawler started to bring him food more substantial than dried fruits, like more variety of smoked meat and cheese, and would touch him more often, and stand closer, and be particularly insistent on how the flagellant deserved better treatment – and on how he could provide it.

All the while, Damian recovered from being bed-ridden, and whenever Silas wasn’t in the chambers, he would stand up and fight imaginary opponents, just to practise blows and strikes.

Damian also tried to open the trunk again, but just like in his previous attempt… he failed.

One day, when Silas left, Damian made his way to the smaller chamber and, among the debris near the water spring, found a stone that would be perfect to smash the brawler’s head – and with luck, to break the door lock and allow him to finally leave that horrid place.

When Silas returned, he found the flagellant sitting at the end of the bed, looking at him:

“Not sprawled on the floor… We’re making progress!” Silas commented and walked to the trunk, pulling off his claws. He opened the trunk and was about to lift the heavy lid when he _felt_ something launching at him – and the brawler, as an experienced fighter and having spent almost his entire life in the dungeons, knew better than to ignore his intuition.

Silas stepped to the side and turned around, but that didn’t stop Damian from hooking an arm around his neck and pull him down with him to the floor. They fell, already tangled in each other, Damian raising above his head the hand holding the stone and Silas crossing his arms over his head to protect himself.

They landed on the floor with the brawler partially on top of the flagellant, still Damian managed to successfully hit Silas’ head once with the stone before having his hand caught and his wrist twisted to the point that he growled in pain and released the stone:

“Treacherous little bastard…” Silas hissed, and by controlling Damian’s wrist made him twist around on the floor, as the flagellant tried to keep up with the torsion on his wrist and move accordingly, to avoid having his wrist broken.

Yet, he had managed to dent the brawler’s mask, and there was blood running down Silas’ face:

“I strike for the Light!” Damian growled, and attempted to use his legs to kick the brawler. But by then Silas had scrambled to his feet, always keeping Damian in a wristlock, and it was he who began to kick the flagellant on the sides:

“Seems you need to cool down a bit more,” Silas stated angrily and, when Damian was coughing and trying to breathe, he reached out for the trunk and picked up the shackles from inside it.

Before shackling the flagellant again, Silas whipped his back with the shackles, apparently forgotten about not wanting blood on his carpets.

Damian was roughly pulled up and taken to the smaller chamber. In his haze from the sudden beating, the flagellant didn’t quite realize where he had been taken to… but the moment he was pushed forwards and fell on his face in the water, he widened his eyes in fear.

Not the water. Not all of that again.

* * *

 

“Calmer, are we?” Silas snarled and forced Damian out of the water and onto the floor. The flagellant was coughing and shaking and he unconsciously curled up over himself.

Silas was furious. He had thought the flagellant had understood fighting him was useless, and he did not want to have to nearly kill Damian – again - in order to break him and tame him. The audacity of the flagellant in attacking him made him consider, for a moment, that all of that was worthless, and that Damian should be sacrificed to the old gods.

However… that would be giving to Damian victory in silver ware. No, Silas could not allow that. He had to break that man, convert him, have him.

The brawler walked into the bigger chamber and pulled his mask off. He felt the dent on it, and uttered a thankful praying; he had no doubts that, had it not been the steel protecting his head, he would be lying dead by now… the flagellant’s blow would have been enough to stun him, and from then on the flagellant would be free to reduce his head to a bloody pulp by hitting him with the stone as many times he wanted.

Silas pressed a hand against his bleeding head and picked up a cloth from the trunk. He then returned to the smaller chamber, kneeled by the water and soaked the cloth.

Not far from him, curled and shivering and bleeding from the wounds in his back, Damian watched. The chamber was too dim for him to make out the brawler’s face properly, but there was enough light to let him understand he had at least injured the brawler. Damian grinned victoriously; since he had failed to kill the brawler, he had hopefully angered him enough so that now the brawler would kill him… and Damian would finally die for the Light.

Yet the brawler just washed the cloth again and pressed it back on his head.

* * *

 

Damian was left alone in the smaller chamber, soaked, shivering in cold. He could hear the brawler in the bigger chamber, until at some point he left and the flagellant found himself completely alone again.

And he was back to feeling confused and infuriated; why wouldn’t the brawler just _kill him_ , why wouldn’t the Light _take him_??

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Opinions, anyone? Please?


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you guys for the feedback and kudos!  
> Also, fanart to this chapter is going to be added later.
> 
> *EDIT* Fanart is on, please check it out, it's gorgeous!

The flagellant was starting to doze off, despite the cold and humidity. For a moment, he remembered the feeling of blankets and furs, and immediately cursed himself for having grown weak in the days he was bed-ridden.

He startled awaken when Silas suddenly kneeled next to him and started to remove his damp clothes. Despite himself Damian curled up instinctively, but the brawler simply undressed him, tended to his wounds and took him back to the bigger chamber again.

This time, however, he leaded Damian to a patch of floor free of carpets and forced him to kneel there:

“You seem to dislike my carpets, so I took the liberty to remove them for you,” Silas explained, and his croaky voice was just too friendly for Damian’s liking. Then the brawler went to sit on the bed, his back leaning against his several pillows and his legs stretched forwards, and he just kept staring at Damian.

The flagellant hurriedly turned his back at the brawler and sat, pulling his knees up to his chest. He felt Silas’ eyes on his back, and the fact that he was naked and the other man kept staring made him feel helpless like he had never felt before. He felt fragile, way too vulnerable, and humiliated to the point of bringing bitter tears to his eyes. Never, in his life as a flagellant, had Damian been so offended, so disrespected; not when he had a beer bottle smashed on his face, not when people had thrown rocks at him:

“Is the wall interesting?” Silas asked suddenly, and the question was so odd it made Damian glance over his shoulder, confused. Much to his dismay, Silas was still staring at him, his head tilted and smirking. “Hm? Is it?”

Damian said nothing and looked ahead again. Behind him, from the bed, the brawler chuckled and jumped to the floor, and the flagellant’s heart fell at his feet as he heard Silas approach him. He flinched involuntarily and felt Silas’ hand on his head, stirring his buzz-cut hair:

“Oh, but we’re cold, aren’t we?” the brawler asked, and his hand moved down Damian’s neck. When it started going down the flagellant’s back, Damian slumped to the side, his legs firmly against his chest:

“You and who else?” the flagellant grunted through gritted teeth. And couldn’t the brawler just leave him alone, if killing him was out of question? Damian watched, by the corner of his eye, Silas towering over him. And having the massive brawler, fully dressed, masked, looking down at him… was the worst feeling in the world.

Silas laughed, and his laughter was booming and Damian hated it:

“My poor Damian, you’re so cold you drop to the side! You need to warm up a bit,” He bent over the flagellant, held him by the arm and pulled him up. Damian tried to resist, play dead-weight, but discovered Silas wasn’t even bothered by it and simply dragged him to the bed. The chains of the flagellant’s shackles rattled furiously as he was thrown on the bed and then tried to protect himself the best he could from the brawler’s eyes:

“I am not yours, I belong to the Light!” Damian growled, eyeing Silas warily as the brawler began to pace back and forth in front of the bed.

The brawler said nothing and, shortly after, crawled back to bed and lied on his side, facing the flagellant.

Damian, shackled and naked, thought that nearly drowning, as terrifying as it was, was better than this feeling of helplessness. He hated it, when Silas just stared at him in silence, this close, but still he stared back in defiance, and in the beginning forced himself to look directly into the apparently empty eyes of the skull mask Silas wore.

Yet he noticed the mask wasn’t dented anymore – the brawler must have gotten it fixed somewhere, and this thought made the flagellant wonder what kind of facilities the cultists had at their disposal in the dungeons, and how they lived, and how they got provisions, and if they had any sort of society, and their numbers. This could be valuable information… but even if he got an answer to all his questions, how would he go back to the Hamlet, share what he knew with the other adventurers and prepare a proper military expedition to neutralize the heathens?

Clenching his jaw bitterly, he allowed his eyes to roam somewhere else, to the lower half of the brawler’s face. Silas had a strong cleft chin and, now that Damian was actually  _looking_ , he noticed what looked like acne-scars. The thought that such a hulking man like Silas was once an unfortunate victim of acne made him snicker:

“What’s so funny?” Silas asked curiously, reminding Damian he was being watched, and immediately ceasing his snickering. The flagellant said nothing and looked down, at the knees pulled up to his chest.

That made the brawler tilt his head and crawl closer:

“We are both men, you don’t need to hide…” he said quietly, and Damian tried to wriggle away. But the mattress was too soft, and his arms were restrained behind his back, and he didn’t want to use his legs and uncover himself. Silas rolled over his stomach and rested his hands on his palms. “You poor thing, why are you so afraid of being exposed?”

“Would you like to be in my position?” Damian retorted angrily. “And I am a holy man! I am not to be exposed!”

Silas raised his eyebrows behind his mask:

“Your position isn’t bad at all, Damian…” Silas replied calmly, and that made the flagellant gape, outraged. “You have food and water at your disposal, and had it not been your treachery, you wouldn’t be naked and cold and shackled…”

Damian opened his mouth to speak, but no sound came out. He blamed the brawler for having the cheek to say he was guilty of his own humiliation… but then he closed his mouth slowly, sulking, and gave it a thought. He had been relatively free – and decent - before his failed attempt at killing the brawler:

“Release me, then,” he tried, and flinched as Silas burst out laughing like he had heard something hilarious.

The brawler then sighed, wiped at an imaginary tear at his mask and stood up. From the floor, next to his bed, he picked up his stomach piece and put it on:

“It’s not that easy, Damian! You must show me you are reliable!” Silas explained, amused, and made his way to the trunk, where he had kept his claws.

Damian frowned and narrowed his eyes:

“What kind of captivity is that???” he uttered in disbelief. Silas turned around to face him, wearing his claws. He approached the bed again and tilted Damian’s head up with a claw, and if the flagellant cut himself was his own fault for trying to resist:

“A chance in a lifetime. Convert,” Smirking, Silas walked way and left the chambers.

Damian lied stunned for a moment, then looked around frantically, weighing his options: he could either drag himself to his preferred spot of floor and have nothing to cover himself, he could try to go to the smaller chamber and attempt to put on his damp clothes, or he could stay in the bed and hide among the blankets and furs. The bed was too comfortable for him, but it provided a must needed cover – without the risk of accidentally falling into the water again while trying to get dressed -  so Damian grudgingly uncurled himself and snaked under the blankets and furs. The Light would understand...

* * *

 

The flagellant presumed at least two more days went by.

Silas dressed him again, but stored his collar and hood inside the trunk. The shackles remained, yet the moment Damian had his manskirt again, he flung himself from the bed to his patch of floor and sat there, knees pulled up to his chest and his back facing the brawler.

Silas laughed and nagged him again to convert, that he would have a better life. But Damian ignored him.

Because, now that he was dressed, the flagellant could think about another problem: how long had it been, since he had last whipped himself? There were hundreds of souls at stake! And the Light would be angry about Damian not carrying out his duties and simply sitting there, comfortably, and staring at a stone-cold wall. And then all the souls dependent on the flagellant would be doomed, and the flagellant’s own soul would be lost!

Damian first made the mistake of starting to scratch his arms when Silas was around. Technically, the brawler was bathing in the smaller chamber, but after the flagellant began to scratch himself, rattling the chains of his wrist shackles furiously, it didn’t take long for Silas to show up, stride to him and pull him up, holding his arms in an iron grip:

“What now?” the brawler asked with a hint of annoyance, because Damian had been quiet and had made him think – wrongly again, as it seemed – that he was calming down and conforming to his fate.

The flagellant clenched his jaw, yet decided to test how compassionate was his captor, who bragged so much about all the goodness he could provide to the flagellant:

“I must whip myself,” Damian explained. “Can I have my flail?”

Silas tilted his masked head and pressed his lips into a line. He then shook his head, slowly, and his hands moved down Damian’s muscled arms, gently, felling the damage the flagellant had done to himself. Damian tensed under the touch, but did his best not to shake off the brawler’s hands:

“No,” Silas replied finally, in a very calm voice. “I won’t let you do that to yourself.”

“But I must!! I carry a burden of-“

“You carry no more burdens, now,” Silas’ hands moved to rest heavily on Damian’s shoulders, as to prove him that there was nothing there for him to carry. “Convert. Be free!”

But Damian stepped back abruptly, nearly losing his balance due to the shackles on his ankles. He managed to stand still though, and pulled away from Silas’ hands:

“Don’t you have compassion? Mercy?” Damian growled, furious. Silas stepped forwards, his hands reaching out to hold Damian again, but the flagellant launched himself at Silas, hitting his chest with the side of his shoulder and with enough force to knock down the brawler.

Silas huffed, suddenly breathless, but as he fell he held onto the chain of Damian’s wrist shackles, and eventually the flagellant was pulled down with him. The brawler snarled and hurried to climb on top of Damian and pin him to the ground, bravely ignoring the several but quite feeble kicks the flagellant managed to apply on his back.

However, Damian sat up abruptly, headbutting Silas in the mouth:

“Feel my resolve!” Damian barked and tried to strike again, but the brawler managed to dodge and wrapped his fingers around the flagellant’s throat. And Damian gasped for air, widening his eyes, remembering that, besides nearly drowning… he also  _did not like_  being strangulated.

Silas’ lower lip was split and the brawler bared his teeth, bloodstained. He oozed danger and, for a moment, he considered to  _simply_  kill Damian.

But he had asked for this, hadn’t he? Asked for a challenge, for his match. Very well, he was having it now! And certainly his gods were watching, judging his performance, maybe even thinking the shackled flagellant was too much for the brawler… that Silas had bitten more than he could chew.

The brawler flared his nostrils, furious. The flagellant was gasping for air, his throat firmly secured by Silas’ hand. Yet, slowly, Silas released Damian, who coughed and fell on his back. The brawler remained straddling him:

“Why do you insist in martyrizing your flesh?” Silas asked, making an effort to keep his voice relatively calm. Damian just lied under him, his limp body occasionally shaken by cough. “You were  _abandoned_  by the people you so stupidly want to save!” He reached out for Damian’s face and held his chin roughly, lifting his head. “You are not leaving this place, can’t you see it? I am not going to kill you – “ And the brawler bared his bloodstained teeth again in a feral grin, and bent down, approaching his masked head to Damian’s until the tips of their noses were touching. The flagellant tensed up and tried to wriggle away, but his face was well-secured and Silas’ weight kept him pinned to the ground. “ – and I don’t think your Light would be happy if you did it yourself, hm?”

Damian’s breath caught in his throat; suicide was a vile sin, and he could barely believe the brawler had even considered Damian, a holy man, would make such thing. The brawler’s fingers were digging into Damian's cheeks so strongly the inside was scratching against the teeth, and Damian tried to shake his head free. But Silas’ grip strengthened, and he forced the flagellant to look at the heavy oak door, locked:

“You, Damian, will  _never_  walk out that door. Not until you convert,” the brawler hissed angrily, then forced Damian to look back at him and showed him his other hand, with the index finger and thumb slightly apart. “I am  _this close_  to call an acolyte to deal with you.”

The flagellant considered; his transformation into a creature of Darkness against his will would be… a sacrifice for the Light. Better and much more noble than enduring that ridiculous torture the brawler submitted him to: that torture barely brought him suffering, and he was sure that, with time, he would grow used to the terror of nearly drowning and of strangulation… and then that too would represent no challenge anymore; and he would find ways to bleed for the Light, like scratching himself, or drive the brawler into doing it for him; and he could avoid all comfort by lying in the patch of floor that had been cleared from carpets.

Yes, he would be of more use sacrificed, than if he simply lingered in those chambers:

“You said yourself calling your witch would take away the fun,” Damian teased, forcing the words out as the brawler kept digging his fingers into his cheeks:

“I’m starting to realize you are  _pain_ , instead of fun,” Silas grunted:

“You’ve putting up with it voluntarily, brawler…” the flagellant teased again and grinned, hoping to provoke the brawler to the point that he would bring a cultist acolyte to solve his problem:

“I start to wonder your fellows abandoned you  _proposedly_ , for your insufferableness, and you made up the excuse about them not understanding your holiness,” Silas mused, tilting his masked head. The tip of his nose brushed Damian’s and his breath tickled the flagellant’s skin, who tried to flinch away in disgust. “In the end, you are just a man… holiness or not… and unpleasant men usually do not end well.”

“Only in your bloody, cursed religion!”

“Even because you do not strike me as a ‘holy man’ cherished by your piety…”

“Your split lip is enough evidence of me striking you…” And Damian smiled the smuggest of smiles, at the same time mentally preparing for being punched into oblivion.

And, in fact, Silas’ first instinct was curling his free hand into a fist. But then he remembered the flagellant was unaffected by pain… but that any other kind of contact appeared to be uncomfortable to him. Silas felt like punching himself instead: the flagellant was playing him like a fiddle! Of course the flagellant would rather be turned into a being of Darkness – he certainly saw it as dying for his stupid Light – than staying  _there_ , with Silas.

Patience. He needed patience, and apparently would need a lot of time.

Damian’s smile died as he watched Silas take in a slow, calming breath… and smirk at him in return. And the brawler let go of his face and stood up, and even helped Damian to his feet:

“My split lip reminds me…” the brawler said, and his croaky voice was too sweet, too friendly, and Damian’s heart skipped a beat and he automatically thought that the brawler would force him into the water again.

But no.

The brawler unshackled one of his wrists, only to change the position of his arms and restrain them forwards. Now Damian had a bit more of freedom of movement, but before he could make anything, the brawler threw a carpet at him, and another one:

“… there is blood on my carpets, and I don’t want blood on my carpets,” Silas reminded him and pushed him towards the smaller chamber. “And because it is your fault, you are going to wash that blood away.”

“What if I don’t want to?” Damian asked, shocked, because holy men do not wash blood from carpets. He flinched when the brawler caressed his face:

“Oh, but if I answer, I’ll spoil the surprise…”

The flagellant opened and closed his mouth, speechless. Confused. That brawler was maddening, and he and his captivity be damned!

* * *

 

As a reward for Damian grudgingly washing the carpets, Silas covered Damian’s head with his hood and secured it in place with the spiked collar. And the flagellant never thought he would be so happy by feeling the weight of his iron collar on the base of his neck, nor that he would relish so much in the feeling of having his face hidden from the world.

But the flagellant quickly returned to his main concerns: the souls depending on him and his impossibility of punishing his flesh… not to mention his sacrifice for the Light.

They were quiet for the rest of the day: Damian sat in his preferred spot of floor facing the wall and Silas lied on the bed, looking at the flagellant’s back. And later, when the flagellant didn’t put up a fight to eat and drink, the brawler restrained his arms forwards again – Damian had had his wrists shackled behind his back since he had finished washing the carpets.  With his arms like that, the flagellant considered very seriously in attacking the brawler again, by the back, and use the chain of his wrist shackles as a garrotte and strangle the brawler. Yet… the chains would rattle too much, and maybe Damian wouldn’t even manage to reach the brawler’s neck with his arms like that, since Silas was taller… and he had no doubts the brawler had enough strength to pull the chains away… and would he manage to move swiftly enough, with his ankles shackled as well?

He opted for not attacking Silas.

Then the brawler left, leaving Damian alone and with enough freedom of movement to dutifully scratch his arms and shoulders – on the patch of floor that didn’t have carpets. Scratching himself wasn’t as good as whipping, but it would have to do, and certainly the Light would understand the flagellant’s situation…

Only when there was blood running down Damian’s arms and the skin was torn and painfully swollen did the flagellant stop, sighing in relief. He felt… weightless, and pure, and allowed himself to smile. His heart was beating fast, with the excitement of an accomplished mission:

“See me Light! Witness how I shrink not from the burden!” he exclaimed, thrilled, a smile still on his lips, and he looked up devotedly.

His smile died, though; he heard the door opening and craned his neck to see the brawler coming in, bringing a basket with fresh fruit.

Damian frowned and couldn’t help himself:

“Where do you get the food?” he asked curiously, and turned away from the wall to watch the brawler approach him, set the basket between them and sat cross-legged in front of Damian:

“My people have a deal with Vvulf, the brigand leader,” Silas explained and picked up a small red apple for himself. “He gives us part of the provisions he finds, and we let him and his men roam our territory undisturbed.”

Damian said nothing and peeked into the basket: apples, grapes and some wild berries. He considered not eating anything – he had already eaten, hours before, and he had been eating more than he needed in this ridiculous captivity: three times a day, outrageous! But he had a soft spot for wild berries, and he couldn’t remember the last time he ate some. Just a couple of them would cause no harm, right?

They ate in silence, and Damian couldn’t help but notice that Silas devoured the entire apple – seeds included, plus a handful of grapes, and Damian automatically added «glutton» to the wide list of sins Silas was guilty of. And then the brawler just kept staring at him, and the flagellant supposed that sooner or later Silas would comment on his scratched arms and nag him with the conversion business again.

Yet the brawler said nothing. Simply stood up and went to stand behind Damian, and pulled him up by the collar:

“Useful, after all…” he commented with a chuckle, standing way too close for the flagellant’s liking. The brawler then unshackled one of Damian’s wrists and pulled both of his arms back to shackle him again, all the way touching with unnecessary frequency. That was when Silas felt the scratched skin on the flagellant’s muscular arms, and he let out a resigned sigh. “You scratched yourself.”

“You are a brilliant man,” the flagellant replied. Silas chuckled and left to get the medical supplies from his trunk. He tended patiently to Damian’s arms – and the flagellant didn’t protest, because he could always rip off the bandages of his arms and scratch himself again.

But when the brawler was finished, he placed his hands on the flagellant’s shoulders, feeling tense muscles. Damian tried to shake off Silas’ hands, wriggle away. But was once more reminded that the brawler’s gentle touch turned into the strongest of grips in the blink of an eye:

“You are tense, Damian…” Silas purred, his croaky voice dangerously soft, and Damian renewed his efforts to break free from the brawler’s grip. Unfortunately, he couldn’t. “Come with me, you need to rest… I doubt you can have any proper rest, lying on cobble stones…”

Damian wanted to say he liked his cobble stones very much, but he was too busy realizing, with growing concern, that the brawler was leading him to the bed. He did not want to sleep in the bed.

Silas forced the flagellant to sit, then to lie and to roll on his stomach:

“Tense, very tense…” Silas uttered to himself, visibly enjoying the fact that Damian was tense. He left the flagellant on the bed and made his way to the trunk, and when he returned with a small vial in hand he had to push Damian back to the bed, ruining the flagellant’s attempt to escape to his preferred patch of floor. “Stubborn, aren’t we?”

“Yes, I guess we are…” this time, the flagellant had to agree with the brawler, his voice muffled against pillows and blankets and furs. He then froze, feeling the brawler straddle his lower back. But his shock lasted only seconds; he then began to wriggle and buck his hips furiously in an attempt at throwing off the brawler. Yet Silas simply pressed his knees harder against the flagellant’s sides and held at his collar, and patiently allowed himself to be shaken by the fighting man underneath him.

It took only a couple of minutes for Damian to exhaust himself, and both his ankles and wrists felt bruised and bitten by the shackles. Breathless, the flagellant lied still, and Silas let go of his collar and opened the small vial he had brought:

“You have the physique of a warrior, but you clearly aren’t one,” Silas stated conversationally, pouring a greasy substance between Damian’s shoulder blades. The flagellant tensed up again and attempted to throw him off once more, but Silas simply stood on his knees, undisturbed by Damian’s erratic struggle. “You have no sense of self-preservation.”

Damian’s body slumped on the mattress, exhausted and breathless again, and Silas began to spread the greasy substance with the palms of his hands.

The greasy substance on Damian’s skin felt disgusting, and the feeling of Silas’ big warm hands up and down his back was horrible:

“What are you doing, foul creature??” the flagellant growled, furious, tensing all his back muscles and trying to protect his back with his restrained arms:

“It’s called a massage, and you enjoyed the last time I gave you one…” Silas replied, held Damian’s shackled wrists and forced – with great effort – the flagellant’s arms to rest parallel to the body, on the mattress. He then hurriedly kneeled over the inside of Damian’s arms, making him gasp in pain. “… and you didn’t give me all this trouble…”

“ _You_  are the one giving  _me_  trouble…” Damian complained through gritted teeth. “You are insufferable! A petty nuisance, like a fly!”

“No,  _you_  are insufferable and a petty nuisance!” The greasy substance was spread and Silas began to knead between Damian’s shoulder blades. He was met with tense muscle, hard as stone:

“Stop that!”

“Why, does it  _hurt_?” Silas mocked and insisted on the muscles between the shoulder blades.

Damian opened and closed his mouth, but no sound came out. This wasn’t his flail, punishing his flesh for the salvation of others and the cleansing of his own soul; this wasn’t skin and flesh tearing apart; this didn’t bleed, didn’t purify him. This was simply a pair of big warm hands caressing and pressing on his muscles for… what was this for? What was the point?? Why would someone even want someone else’s hands touching them??  _Heathen hands_!!

“Stop!!!” Damian growled and tried to wriggle free again, with no success. Silas gave him no attention, still working between his shoulder blades:

“My initial plan was to break you,” he told calmly, ignoring Damian’s roars on how he wanted that whole thing to stop right now and his demands to know what was the point of this. “But I’ve realized you are already broken…”

The flagellant stopped and craned his neck, trying to look at the brawler. His hood didn’t let him, though:

“I am not broken!”

“And you are trying to refuse to be fixed, which is simply stupid.”

“I am not broken!!”

“You are,” Silas grinned and scratched softly at the muscles he was working on. “What kind of sane man would rather be whipped than massaged?”

“A holy man!!!” And Damian attempted to shake off the brawler again.

Yet Silas simply stood on his knees and proceeded to massage Damian’s back.

Gradually, the flagellant gave up on fighting. Not because he didn’t want to – simply because he couldn’t. Though apparently recovered, his strength and endurance were still diminished, and soon his proposedly tense muscles began to complain again – especially his shoulders.

Frustrated, Damian burrowed his face among the pillows and decided to try another approach:

“Can you please stop?” he grunted:

“Oh, now that you finally relaxed? No!”

“I did not relax because of your ministrations!”

Silas chuckled, delighted, and scratched softly at the flagellant’s side, right above his garments. Damian cursed him and the day he was born, twitching involuntarily in discomfort; Silas touch was maddening, way too soft to be felt at all but at the same with enough pressure to leave an itching sensation behind:

“But you relaxed, Damian,” the brawler commented and scratched at the flagellant’s spine, softly, all the way from between his shoulder blades to his lower back. “You are just a man…”

“I am a holy man!!” Damian growled as he felt goose bumps all over his body; just like when he was cold… yet it felt somehow different from when he was cold, because… it wasn’t the temperature, but the brawler scratching gently at him, and the flagellant cursed his treacherous and weak body for responding to the brawler’s touch – even if Damian couldn’t quite understand why his body was siding with Silas.

Silas moved to the side, kneeling on the bed beside Damian. With a hand he held the flagellant’s restrained wrists, and his other hand was placed on the flagellant’s leg, near the slit on his garments.

Damian froze and widened his eyes, and for a moment even forgot to breathe. He tensed up again, but the feeling of Silas’ big warm hand crawling slowly up his leg kept him petrified:

“You are a man, Damian… and like every man you have needs… carvings… desires…” Silas purred softly and decided to scratch a bit at the inside of the flagellant’s leg. “Convert, and all of that shall be taken care of.”

His hand moved up a bit again, his fingers hovering skin and his nails scratching gently and teasingly at it.

And the flagellant whimpered.

* * *

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Opinions, anyone? Please?


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Glorious fanart has been added to the previous chapter.

“What, does it _hurt_?” Silas asked quietly and his adventurous hand stopped.

The flagellant didn’t dare to reply. The humiliation was too much, and the worst kind he had ever suffered: his treacherous body was answering to the brawler in ways Damian had taken years to tame, to forget. His incapacity to control his body made him realize how _weak_ he was, and how long the road ahead. The brawler’s words, about him being just a man with mundane needs, hit him harder than any other blow, hurt more than any other wound inflicted to his body.

Cruel, poisonous words.

Silas tilted his head, waiting patiently for an answer. But all he heard from the flagellant was his ragged breathing:

“Nervous, are we?” Silas teased and began to trace spirals on the inside of Damian’s leg. “Are you enjoying it? If you don’t talk to me, I have no way to know what you need…!”

He moved his hand up abruptly, until he felt the swell of the flagellant’s buttock. Damian shuddered violently and tried to wriggle away again:

“Stop… please…” the flagellant whimpered, and he didn’t know what scared him the most: if the brawler’s intentions, if his own body.

Silas withdrew his hand and lied on his side, next to the flagellant. Damian didn’t dare to face him:

“That was… surprisingly educated. Very well, I shall stop,” the brawler cooed triumphantly. “Keep in mind that, if you misbehave… I’ll pick this up where we stopped, hm?”

Damian swallowed down a scream of frustration. Unwanted tears burned his eyes again, and the flagellant concluded his despicable body was definitely against him. He felt Silas’ hand on his back and tried to roll away, but was caught by the arm:

“I want an answer,” the brawler said dryly. “Are we understood, Damian?”

The flagellant nodded and Silas smiled, extremely pleased with himself:

“Sleep, shall we? And I’ll even let you sleep in your favourite spot,” And, using both feet, Silas pushed the flagellant off the bed.

Damian rolled off the bed with a yelp and landed on the carpets covering the floor. He simply stood there, petrified, his breathing still ragged. His mind was hazed and his back and leg still felt the ghost of the brawler’s touch, a touch surprisingly gentle for hands that size… a touch that had slightly aroused him. The flagellant wanted it to stop _now_. He needed to pray. He need to whip himself, chastise that ridiculous and weak mortal vessel that was his body, spill his blood to cleanse himself from sin, focus on the right path.

However… he stood still, frozen to the spot, and curled up protectively: the last thing he wanted was to catch Silas’ attention.

Silas, who lied comfortably sprawled on the bed, among pillows and bolsters and blankets and furs. Damian’s reaction had both pleased him and made him feel awkwardly sorry: it was good to finally have some advantage over the flagellant, some way to intimidate him and bend his will… but it was equally pitying that it would have to be through something enjoyable, like caresses.

He took in a sharp breath and turned on his side, feeling again that spark of possessiveness towards the flagellant: he would fix him, set him free from that ridiculous religion of him, and oh – Damian would thank him, would do anything to show his gratitude to him. With a satisfied smirk, Silas flexed the fingers of the hand he had used to touch Damian, recalling the extremely pleasant feeling of scarred skin and stiff muscles – muscles that, by the gods!, he would relax, work into a moaning mess once the time was right.

* * *

 

The flagellant couldn’t sleep. The moment his mind cleared, he started to utter silent prays and pardons, entering in some sort of trance. A trance he left when Silas pulled him to his feet, holding his arms and guiding him to the smaller chamber. The brawler, wearing his claws, held him carefully.

Damian’s first thought was that the brawler would drown him. Then he frowned, confused: by the waterside was a small round mirror with a bronze frame and a large vial with a transparent liquid and a razor. The flagellant’s confusion grew when Silas shackled his arms forwards again and stepped back:

“Your face feels scratchy. I don’t like it,” the brawler explained. “Shave.”

Damian narrowed his eyes: he did not want the brawler’s opinion or interest or concern, and it only angered him that his captor not only gave him food and water… but apparently was also interested in having him looking good. He felt a constricting pang of fear, taking in consideration the brawler’s insistent touching – especially the previous night – and now his comment about how he didn’t like to feel Damian’s stubble. Silas’ intentions seemed more and more obscure, and whatever the brawler was planning, it wasn’t just about conversion. Damian began to feel afraid about what the brawler could do to him, and realized he was running out of ideas as to how deal with Silas: Silas wouldn’t kill him and apparently wouldn’t even beat him anymore… touching him with ill intent, instead. Damian doubted the brawler would ever call a cultist acolyte to turn him into a creature of darkness.

The flagellant felt lost, like he had never felt before. He could refuse to shave – despite his own dislike for stubble – but he just knew that, if he refused, _Silas_ would shave him. And he recalled the feeling of the brawler’s hands on his body, on what that touch did to him, on how it made him feel strange things despite the scarred and desensitized skin and the fact that they were enemies and Damian hated the brawler. How could it be, that cuts had to be deep for him to actually _feel_ something… yet all it had taken had been feather-like touches, the brushing of fingers and the warmth and size of Silas’ big hands.

Damian felt powerless and cast a hateful look at the brawler, who simply stared back at him. Slowly, Damian turned his back to the brawler and kneeled by the waterside:

“And that razor is for _shaving_ ,” Silas warned, and there was a trace of amusement in his voice. He was wearing his claws exactly for the event of the flagellant doing something other than shaving.

Damian grinned sadly, because of course that razor would come in handy to slice open the brawler’s throat… if only he could do it, restrained, while the brawler wore his iron claws. The flagellant washed his face and picked up the razor; he decided to be quiet, wait for a better opportunity. He still felt the ghost of Silas’ touch, and that scared him and made him want to keep distance from the brawler.

He bent over the mirror, lowered his hood and began to shave.

And, since he was at it, why not bleed and cleanse himself from the brawler’s touch? _Blood flows… burden becomes… lighter,_ he thought.

* * *

 

Damian imagined Silas would comment about the several purposeful cuts on his face, arms and torso, and on the discarded bandages that had previously covered his arms… but the brawler didn’t. Instead, he simply escorted Damian to his carpet-free patch of floor in the sleeping chambers, stored the mirror, vial, razor and claws in the trunk and left.

The flagellant took the chance that he was alone and tried to use the chain of his wrist shackles as a whip – Silas had left his arms restrained forwards. Sadly, Damian soon realized the chains were not enough: they just bruised his body… didn’t make him bleed.

And Damian needed to bleed, to purify himself and all the other souls he had volunteered to carry and tend to. His blood was the ultimate offering to the Light, the most precious thing he had and the only that came only with true sacrifice: anyone could take a life of abstinence, all it took was self-control… but the purification through bleeding needed more than just self-control, it required true devotion that could only be achieved through a life of willing suffering. And Damian believed suffering was a gift bestowed at birth, but the ones who embraced it were too few. Though Damian respected both crusaders and vestals by the way they faced their faith… sometimes he couldn’t help but feel superior, because the path he had chosen was more difficult than holding a sword or chanting verses.

Sometime later the brawler returned, interrupting the flagellant’s praying abruptly: the last thing Damian wanted was to catch Silas’ attention again.

But the brawler ignored him, only acknowledging his presence to give him food and water.

And that was it for two days, in which Damian noticed that every time the brawler left, he wouldn’t take his iron claws.

That sparked a bit of curiosity in the flagellant, because he supposed that Silas would have to run into groups of adventurers – or monsters – during his incursions through the dungeons. Therefore… he needed weapons, his iron claws. In fact, now that Damian thought of it… there had been previous times that Silas had left unarmed.

The flagellant prayed with renewed vigour that the brawler would cross paths with a horrible beast and meet an atrocious end.

* * *

 

Yet Silas returned, safe and in one piece. Damian, who was sitting with his back against the wall, cast him a hateful look as he walked by. And the flagellant noticed there were thin and long scratches all over Silas’ back, and he frowned:

“Where do you go, unarmed?” Damian asked reluctantly, because what kind of creature would simply scratch the brawler’s back and let him walk away?

Silas, walking towards the smaller chamber, stopped on his tracks and turned around, tilting his masked head. The flagellant addressing to him – showing interest in him - without insults was a new thing, and could only be a good sign: maybe the flagellant was finally starting to accept his fate and was looking for a way to interact with Silas. Not that Silas believed the flagellant’s intentions were that simple – no, not after all the times the brawler had already been tricked. Yet Silas wanted it, wanted that interaction between them, and he would show Damian he could trust him.

The brawler went to sit in front of the flagellant, cross-legged, smiling in amusement; seemed they were finally going somewhere, even if Damian tried to shrink into the wall:

“Here and there…” the brawler replied calmly in his croaky voice:

“But there are creatures… Your back is scratched…” Damian said, clearly disappointed about whatever attacked the brawler had let him escape.

Yet Silas laughed, loud and booming, and Damian just hated that laughter. The brawler supported an elbow on a thigh and rested his chin on his palm, grinning widely. This close, his acne scars jumped to the sight, and so did his pointy canine teeth. But the eyes of his mask were still apparently empty, even though Damian still had the uncomfortable feeling that those empty eyes could see right through him:

“Careful, Damian! You’ll sound like you care!” Silas teased, his voice so soft the flagellant scrunched up his face:

“I just wish whatever attacked you had killed you!” he growled, realizing a bit too late that the brawler might not like it. But Silas burst out laughing again:

“I wasn’t attacked, Damian… My performance is just very good…”

The flagellant frowned in confusion and the two men stared at each other in expectant silence. In the end, Silas burst out laughing again, and Damian felt his cheeks redden in anger; he was a holy man, he was not to be laughed at by a heathen!

“But we are so innocent, aren’t we?” Silas mocked:

“You definitely aren’t!”

“Well… this time I must agree with you…” And the brawler licked his lips suggestively.

Damian opened and closed his mouth, speechless, disconcerted. Until… he finally understood what the brawler meant, and he widened his eyes in disgust; he was locked in a pit of sin.

Silas waited for Damian to say something, but apparently the flagellant would remain silent. The brawler cocked an eyebrow and approached the flagellant, who tried to shrink into the wall again:

“What, are the pleasures of the flesh a sin in your stupid religion?” the brawler asked:

“Intercourse outside marriage is a sin!” Damian barked, and that only amused Silas:

“Why?”

“Because the Light declared so after creating the first man and the first woman and bind them together in marriage!”

Silas gaped in disbelief and shook his head:

“That is ridiculous! Why should something pleasurable be kept for a single circumstance?”

“Because the Light declared so!!”

The brawler laughed, and he changed position to lie on his stomach and support his chin on his palms. Damian felt like being observed by a snake ready to strike:

“Your Light is a tyrant! Convert, and I will show you the most pleasurable things!”

“I am not converting and I am no woman to be pleasured by a man!” Damian shrieked in wrath, the chains of his wrist shackles rattling furiously as he gesticulated, and that only made the brawler burst out laughing again:

“My gods have better things to do than judge you for who you sleep with,” Silas told, visibly enjoying himself. “These scratches on my back… it was a fellow brawler.”

Damian narrowed his eyes and scrambled away like Silas had the plague. Much to his dismay, Silas crawled after him slowly, predatorily:

“You sodomite!” the flagellant spat. “Foul, sinful creature!! Begone!!!”

Silas just chuckled and eventually took hold of the chain on the flagellant’s ankle shackles, stopping him, and crawled over him. Damian tried to push him away, but at the same time he didn’t want to touch the brawler:

“But I favour both brawlers and priestesses… and both priestesses and brawlers favour me,” Silas told, amused, and Damian kept trying to push him away with the tips of his fingers, like Silas was particularly disgusting and stinky:

“Debauchery!!!”

“Yet, when you convert…” Silas stood on his knees and allowed Damian to wriggle away from under him. “… I’ll favour only you, and you will favour only me.”

Damian cursed him and the day he was born, scrambled to his feet and stumbled into the smaller chamber, where he kneeled by the waterside to wash his hands – though cleaning his skin was obviously not enough.

Silas joined him, chuckling, and Damian hurriedly moved away from the water. He didn’t want to be drowned again:

“Convert,” the brawler told him as he began to undress. By then Damian was already stumbling back to his preferred patch of floor, his chains rattling furiously as he moved:

“Die!” he growled in response, fell on his knees and began to scratch himself frantically.

* * *

 

Later, Damian grudgingly accepted his bowl of water and his plate of smoked meats for dinner and ate facing the wall, his back turned to the brawler. Silas, sitting on the bed snacking wild berries, allowed him to eat in silence.

But when the flagellant set his empty bowl and plate aside, Silas moved to sit at the edge of the bed and leaned forwards, his arms resting on his legs:

“Do priests and priestesses and holy people of your religion marry?” he asked, genuinely curious.

Damian glanced over his shoulder, frowning. He considered not answering – but he didn’t want Silas to touch him. Especially now, that he knew how deviant the brawler was – fornicating with both women and men. He looked at the wall again:

“Some. One shouldn’t, one’s love and devotion must go to the Light.”

The brawler snickered:

“Your Light is greedy and controlling. My gods, on the other hand, allow their followers to have their own lives! Do what they want!” He jumped to the floor and walked to Damian, then crouched next to him. And even though the brawler was keeping his word about not touching the flagellant as long as he behaved, Silas still ignored the concept of personal space. Frowning, Damian slid away a bit. “Tell me, Damian: have you never wanted to do what pleases you?”

“I already do!” The flagellant rolled his eyes. “You can’t understand!”

“Then explain me why whipping yourself for the sake of people who don’t care and leading a life of lonely nights is so appealing…”

Damian narrowed his eyes and said nothing. He wasn’t willing to waste time and words with the brawler. Besides, that man was poisonous, and only the Light knew what ill twist he would give to Damian’s words.

Yet Silas just puffed his chest proudly:

“Speechless, are we?” He nodded, slowly. “You don’t even know why you lead this miserable life of yours! Convert!” To which Damian replied with a hateful look.

* * *

 

Few days gone by. Damian noticed, with a mixture of disdain and horror, that Silas would leave unarmed at least twice a day. Sometimes, Silas would return in what Damian presumed to be the day after, now that his body was getting used to feel time pass by without having the sun to look at to count the time. How could someone be so vile, so weak to the point of putting body before soul, so stupid to let the Darkness seduce them?

There was silence between the flagellant and the brawler again, and the brawler was still keeping his word about not touching the flagellant. Silas would also not comment on Damian’s self-scratched arms, nor the purposeful cuts done with the razor – Damian was glad that the shaving material was put at his disposal every day now, and felt like he was finally doing his duties right.

* * *

 

That day Silas left with his claws and when he returned, much later, he didn’t slam the door like he usually did.

The flagellant, sitting with his back against the wall, looked at him in surprise and noticed the brawler was pressing a hand on his side above the ribs, and was trying to be discreet about it. But the blood coming from under his hand gave him away, and Damian thought it odd that the brawler hadn’t even cleaned it previously.

Damian watched in silence as Silas quietly walked past him and opened his trunk, certainly to fetch medical supplies. That gave the flagellant an idea:

“If I tend to your wound, will you show me your face?” he asked. He wanted it, to finally know the face of the man he _hated_ so much. He hated the brawler with a passion: for his false religion, for his inhuman look with that mask, for everything he had done, for making the flagellant feel afraid of him. Damian wasn’t a man of feelings other than his devotion to the Light but oh, that brawler sure made him hate and loathe like he never had – and had made him feel horrible things when he had touched him. Damian wanted to see the brawler’s face, wanted to look him in the eyes, be sure the brawler’s eyes couldn’t see right through him, and hate Silas even more, fuel his wrath. And then kill him and escape once he had the chance. So maybe playing this game with the brawler, these «favours» Silas enjoyed so much… maybe that would take him somewhere.

Silas looked at the flagellant for a moment. He doubted Damian wanted to help him out of sheer good will, and he should ignore the flagellant… he was wounded, after all, and showing his face – his eyes – this soon would probably be a bad idea.

Yet Damian was restrained – what could he possibly do, even with his wrists shackled forwards, and Silas was sure his threat of physical contact had been much more effective than anything else he had tried. Besides, this was the second time the flagellant had showed interest in him, and Silas did not want to waste that. Perhaps, this had been his gods’ doing… maybe they had finally noticed him, were helping him. He would be rewarded, he knew it!

Silas discarded his claws and picked up vials, a cloth and a roll of bandages:

“Very well,” he said. “Come.”

Damian first thought the brawler was mocking him, that he would either be punched or touched… or drowned, since the brawler was going to the smaller chamber. Still he scrambled to his feet and followed the brawler, the faster he could with his ankles restrained.

The smaller chamber, lighted only by the torch above the entry, was dimmer than the sleeping chamber; yet it was enough light for Damian to understand that whatever had attacked the brawler was either vicious or simply hated him as much as Damian did: the gash on the brawler’s side cut deep through muscle and was wide and slightly jagged. The brawler didn’t flinch while Damian washed and disinfected the wound, but his breathing was shallower and sharper.

“It needs stitching,” the flagellant said, kneeled on the stone floor as Silas stood with his arm raised, so that the flagellant could have full access to the wound on his side:

“Just bandage it,” Silas replied.

Damian did as he was told: if the brawler wanted to die of infection, that would be just fine.

When his wound was bandaged, Silas dismissed Damian and slowly bent down to pick his medical supplies. He clenched his jaw, doing his best to ignore the pain – later he would have to stitch himself, even if he hated doing it: by no means he would allow the flagellant to come near him with a needle.

Damian made his way to his patch of floor and sat. Little later Silas returned to the sleeping chambers, stored the medical supplies in the trunk and went to sit on the bed. He then patted the empty space next to him:

“We need to be comfortable, don’t we?” he said.

After a little hesitation, Damian scrambled to his feet and went to sit on the bed, keeping a safe distance between him and the brawler:

“I’m waiting…” he grunted, crossing his hands on his lap, and that made Silas chuckle:

“Hasty, are we?” He then removed his stomach piece and discarded it on the floor, making Damian roll his eyes in exasperation.

But then he held his mask and pulled it off, to reveal another mask, of black cloth, that covered the upper half of his face and the whole of his neck. He pulled it off as well, slowly, then set it aside together with the mask, next to him. And Silas looked at Damian.

Everything about Silas’ face was strong; jaws, cheekbones and nose bridge. He should be on his thirties, like Damian, yet his cleft chin and acne scars gave him a strange youthful look. His eyebrows were sharp and black, but his head was completely shaved. He had grey eyes, cold and piercing, staring at Damian.

Yet the flagellant frowned and tilted his head slightly, since there was something strange about the brawler’s eyes: staring at him, yes… but at the same time, staring past him, like the brawler couldn’t see him at all or wasn’t sure he was _exactly_ there and so was looking in that general direction. Frowning, Damian carefully raised both hands and approached them to the brawler’s face.

Silas grimaced and caught his wrists in an iron grip. Yet his eyes… they didn’t quite follow the movement of Damian’s hands:

“You’re blind,” Damian stated, his voice a mixture of disbelief and surprise. He had been losing fights for a… _blind man_.

Silas grinned, showing his pointy canine teeth:

“I am not blind,” he grunted. “I can see you... your general shape… and darks and lights…”

The flagellant narrowed his eyes and gaped, suddenly outraged. Seemed he was a proud man, even though he had never thought himself such: but now that he stared at Silas’ grey eyes – Silas’ partially unseeing grey eyes – he couldn’t help but feel offended and angry about _losing for a blind man_ , about _being defeated_ and _humiliated_ by a _blind man_. Partially blind, the flagellant repeated mentally as he tried to appease his wounded pride.

But that also explained why the brawler, always ready to leave an unrequited and unnecessary comment about the flagellant, had never commented on his bruises and self-made cuts, and only noticed them after touching the flagellant:

“How…?” Damian asked, and the confusion and offense in his voice made the brawler laugh, booming and loudly, and oh, Damian hated that laughter, hated that man, hated that partially blind man, hated those piercing eyes that could not see right through him and look at the core of his being:

“I can see your shape,” Silas repeated, like it was the key to all mysteries in life. “And most important of all… I can _hear_ you.”

The flagellant snarled; he hated the brawler _and_ the chains restraining him. Maybe without the chains he could have already taken down the brawler:

“But you’re a… a _cultist brawler_!!” Damian accused in disbelief, because how could Silas survive in the dungeons, in the darkness… if he saw only shapes and lights and darks?

That made the brawler clench his jaw. Silas hesitated, and for a moment thought Damian already knew too much. However, if he wanted the flagellant to trust him, then he would need to show him he could be trusted. The brawler sighed, his eyes fixed on Damian’s dark shape… that in some points blurred with the lighter shape of the pillows and wall behind the flagellant:

“I’ve had a lifetime to get used to this, I was born this way,” Silas told.

Yet Damian just shook his head in disbelief:

“But you’re a cultist brawler…” the flagellant accused again, because warriors of Darkness couldn’t possibly be partially blind. In fact, warriors in general could not have deficient sight; otherwise, how could they fight, strike, defend themselves, attack foe and not friend?

The brawler stood up and lowered his hand to little bellow his knee, indicating the general height of a toddler:

“I was this tall when I was brought here,” Silas told proudly and sat on the bed again, his eyes never leaving Damian’s shape.

The flagellant frowned and slowly shook his head in horror:

“You… you were just a child…” he muttered:

“I remember being told I was an offering to the Heart of Darkness, the creator of gods and worlds, the most powerful entity, and that I would serve him,” the brawler added with even more pride.

Yet Damian just kept shaking his head, suddenly pitying the man he hated so much. Silas hadn’t been an ‘offering’… he had been stolen from his parents. Damian remembered his own childhood, when adults told him and his friends they had to behave very well, never walk away from their parents and never be outside at night, otherwise they would be taken away by the people of darkness. He remembered hearing older women telling young mothers to never let their children out of their sight, or they would be taken by the people of darkness. In his early teenage years, Damian had thought it was just campfire stories to keep naughty children away from mischief and a way to force young mothers to be responsible. However, upon choosing a religious life, he had learned than the cultists, few at that time, needed to bring children into their cult so that it would grow, and the children would grow as well, brainwashed into serving the gods of chaos, because it was easier and safer to steal children for the cult than converting adults who had heard about the Light their whole life and risk getting caught by the authorities – for the Heart of Darkness and his gods of chaos had been banned long ago, and it was a crime to praise them.

Now, with the Darkness in full power in those dungeons, the cultists didn’t need to bring children anymore – adults would come on their own free will upon hearing stories about the dark power in the dungeons or after their mind being corrupted by its increasing power, and the kidnapped children were now fully-grown adults, acolytes and brawlers.

Like Silas, whose grey eyes were still fixed on Damian. The flagellant tried to imagine how it had been, growing up in such a place while being partially blind. He wondered how many children had died in the process and felt his heart tighten with grief; so many innocent lives going to waste, ruined forever.

There was a moment of awkward silence between them. Damian wanted to ask more, Silas wanted to say more. But none of them spoke for a while, and eventually Silas moved his eyes to a lighter point above Damian’s head – one of the many candles in the sleeping chambers. Then the brawler dragged himself closer to the flagellant and lowered his hood:

“Be still,” he ordered when the flagellant tried to wriggle away:

“You said you wouldn’t touch me!” Damian argued, annoyed, but stood still when Silas’ hand caught his ear and twisted it painfully:

“I want to _see_ you,” Silas grumbled, then released the flagellant’s ear and placed both hands on his head, feeling his buzz-cut hair. “What colour is your hair?”

“Blond…” Damian grunted lowly, casting a hateful look at the brawler. Not that Silas would get the subtle message…

“And is that light or dark?” Silas’ hands moved all over Damian’s head, until his fingers began to touch at his face.

This touch was different. It wasn’t light, carrying sinful intentions; it was inquiring, heavy, mapping, in search for details. Damian closed his eyes when Silas began to touch at his nose and eyes area:

“Light…” he replied:

“And your eyes?” Silas poked one of them with a bit too heavily, probably unintentionally, since his fingers became more careful:

“Blue… It’s light as well…” Damian pressed his lips together and flinched when Silas began to touch them.

Silas hummed, interested, feeling all there was to feel on the flagellant’s face:

“You have scars and cuts on your face,” he stated and stopped touching the flagellant:

“I have scars all over me…” Damian replied dryly, because the last thing he needed was that partially blind man to shave him to prevent self-made cuts. The thought of Silas shaving someone – and himself – was actually ironic, and Damian couldn’t help a grin:

“Not in your thighs…” Silas purred teasingly, and all the pity Damian had felt was swept away by wrath:

“You are despicable,” he spat:

“Quarrelsome, aren’t we?” Silas laughed and stood up, turned his back at Damian and made his way to the makeshift table to get himself a bowl of water.

Damian was about to reply that yes, Silas was stupidly provocative, but he noticed a large raised scar on the back of the brawler’s head that made him grow silent: an upper skull with an aureole, like the design of the cultists’ masks:

“How did you make that scar?” Damian asked, even if he had the feeling he knew the answer.

Silas turned around to face him, pouring water from the heavy bronze hydria into a small ceramic bowl:

“I don’t remember, I was too young… but I know it felt like… burning,” he told. The flagellant grimaced, feeling his pity towards the brawler return; Silas had been marked with a branding iron, like the type used for livestock. “Do you want water?”

Damian shook his head, then frowned:

“No,” he said. Silas grimaced, turned around and put down the bronze hydria and the ceramic bowl:

“I _saw_ you…”

The flagellant looked down, feeling like a child who had just been scolded in front of everyone over something meaningless. The brawler came to sit next to him again, looking at him, and there was another moment of awkward silence between them. Damian was trying to understand what it meant to him, to be captive and helpless in the hands of a man that, outside these dungeons, would be nothing but a beggar, because no one would give work to a blind man – even if said man was still able to see shapes and darks and lights. Outside these dungeons, Damian would gladly take Silas under his wing, give him help and guidance, find him shelter in a monastery – even if outside these dungeons Silas had beaten him up, tried to drown him and touched him in inappropriate ways.

It wouldn’t be the first stray soul Damian would make his own crusade to save…

Yet, the brawler was a heathen. Sin incarnate. There was no salvation for him, even if it wasn’t directly his fault that his soul had been corrupted. The flagellant hated him, and the little pity he felt towards the brawler wouldn’t change that, and Damian wouldn’t rest while he couldn’t find a way to trick that partially blind heathen and escape.

But for now, the threat of inappropriate and sinful touch was too vivid in Damian’s memory, and he crossed his arms in front of his chest:

“You need stitching…” he grumbled, referring to the wound on the brawler’s side. Silas frowned, toed off his boots and swung his left leg over the bed. He pulled up his manskirt, showing his leg, and Damian groaned in suffering and looked away, because he did not need to see more of Silas’ body:

“I can stitch myself!” Silas argued, Damian’s dismay having gone unnoticed. He groped at his leg, looking for something, until his fingers brushed a long and narrow raised scar on his calf. “Behold.”

The flagellant looked at the scar and frowned, shaking his head in disbelief:

“You should have died from that…” he mumbled; how could it be possible that the brawler was still alive?? That scar had all the signs of a poor stitching and a great infection. Yet it had healed, and Silas was still there. Dark magic, it had to be dark magic:

“But we’re alive, aren’t we?” Silas grinned widely and drummed the tips of his fingers on his exposed leg. Damian looked away again, having no intention to look at the brawler’s leg:

“Sadly…” The flagellant sighed. “Why don’t you ask one of your harlots to stitch you?”

Silas laughed, but there was something strange about it. It was still loud and booming and Damian still hated it, but there was melancholy there, something that hurt deep but that the brawler didn’t want to acknowledge.

The brawler pulled his other leg over the bed and sat cross-legged in front of Damian, his head tilted and eyes fixed on the flagellant’s figure:

“We don’t do that kind of favours…” Silas told patiently, and Damian looked back at him with narrowed eyes:

“Why?”

“It’s not pleasurable…” the brawler purred in return, his croaky voice coated with sweetness. It was better to stop sharing about himself with the flagellant; Damian already knew more than he should. And he had shared nothing in return.

Yet, Silas was extremely satisfied: the flagellant was interested in him, and hopefully now would be even more, and would want to know more, and ask more… and eventually, he would share. Silas would make him. What days before had seemed way too distant, after being headbutted by Damian, was now closer, more vivid. Silas felt again that spark of possessiveness towards the flagellant, and for a moment thought about stretching his hand and touch him, just for the pleasure of doing it.

However, that would throw to the wind all the hard word he had had. The flagellant was a strange man who didn’t like to be touched – or so he claimed, yet Silas now knew Damian had the same primal need everyone had: the need for contact, even if it wasn’t physical… at least, not physical for now.

The brawler stood up and stretched. The wound on his side complained, and the flagellant was right, he did need stitches. With resignation, he made his way to the trunk, picked up his medical supplies and went to the smaller chamber to stitch himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Opinions, anyone? Please? Pretty please?


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you kind people for the feedback. ;-; It means a lot and makes it much easier to write.

With his wound poorly stitched, Silas hid from the world in his chambers, dooming Damian to his permanent company. Silas didn’t mind to just lie in bed and look at the flagellant sitting on the carpet-free patch of floor, and now that Damian had seen his face he didn’t need to constantly use his mask, which left him more comfortable to rest his head on his many pillows. And even though there was silence between them, the brawler still enjoyed it.

On the contrary, Damian hated it. More than being captive, being captive under Silas’ permanent presence was nightmarish: the fact that Silas kept staring at him, though without _seeing him at all_ , was driving Damian out of his mind, convincing him that he would never be able to take down the brawler because, if he couldn’t see, he then relied in other senses, and those were certainly sharper than the senses of a man who could see properly; it was making Damian paranoid, making him start to believe that Silas _could hear him breathe_. Because of this, he had stopped scratching himself, and the stress of being constantly under Silas’ unseeing gaze and not carrying out with his duties wore him off like no other form of exertion ever had.

Damian’s only form of purification was through the small purposeful cuts while shaving, but as the days gone day he started to imagine that sooner or later Silas would hear his blood drip and start shaving him to prevent that. And the flagellant did not want it, didn’t want the brawler to touch him. It still haunted Damian, the ghostly feeling of Silas’ hands and fingers on his back and leg. And even the inquiring touching of his head and face. The feeling was burned into his memory, bringing him a tingling sensation.

One morning, Damian woke up to the feeling of his ankles being unshackled. After the initial surprise, the flagellant then spent the rest of the day stumbling across the chambers, trying out his stiffened and weakened joints, momently and blissfully immune to all the stress Silas’ presence brought him. The brawler, sitting cross-legged on the bed, simply watched in amusement, with a permanent grin and an occasional chuckle every time Damian fell ungracefully on the floor. Silas was confident that Damian would know how to appreciate this recent display of good-will.

The flagellant, however, had a different idea of how to appreciate the gesture: now that his ankles were free, it was a matter of securing the chain of his wrist shackles on his hands and he would be much more silent. With luck and the perfect timing, the brawler would stand no chance!

Damian’s heart filled with hope and, standing on shaky legs in the middle of the room, he looked at the brawler sitting cross-legged on the bed. Stupid, ridiculous brawler; what did he expect from Damian, gratitude? The flagellant took the chance that Silas couldn’t see him to smile a feral grin. Yet he couldn’t help but wonder, and with clumsy steps he proceeded to walk around the chambers:

“Why?” he asked curiously.

Silas shifted slightly on the bed and shrugged:

“Because,” he replied nonchalantly. Damian stumbled and Silas chuckled. “Happy, are we?”

“You certainly are, watching my misfortune…”

“It’s amusing, yes…” Silas grinned from ear to ear and stood up. His movements were slower and stiffer due to the poor stitching on his side, but truth was that the wound was healing. He walked to Damian and stopped in front of him, looking down at him in amusement.

The flagellant was a good head shorter than Silas. Yet Damian stood still, defiant in weakened legs, and he straightened his back and squared his shoulders. With a frown, he looked up at the brawler, and how he hated to have to look up at him to be able to meet his eyes, blind yet eerily piercing. However, the flagellant realized with a hint of dismay, it was _he_ who insisted in looking Silas in the eye, even if Silas was simply staring at the generality of his face. Why he insisted, if the brawler couldn’t look back, he did not know.

For a moment, Damian wondered if the brawler could feel him stare. If Silas could feel him frown, could feel the hate he looked him with, could feel the small amount of pity he felt towards him.

But the brawler was simply there, oblivious, towering over the flagellant. Damian considered hitting the brawler on his poorly stitched wound and then shower him in punches and blows, and use the chain of his wrist shackles to whip the brawler and, with luck, strangle him. If he kept his hands close to his body until the moment of striking, Silas wouldn’t see it… it could work…

Damian startled when Silas rested his hands on his shoulders:

“You’re small, Damian,” the brawler commented softly. The flagellant gaped, feeling offended. “In height. But you’re broad, and strong. I like your body.”

“Get your hands off!!” the flagellant growled and slapped Silas’ hands away. “Degenerate! You said you wouldn’t touch me!!” Damian stumbled into the smaller chamber, in urgent need to wash his shoulders, where those big heathen hands had rested on.

Silas smirked; if Damian called up on their deal, so he was finally accepting his fate. He walked over to the doorway of the smaller chamber and leaned against the wall, looking at Damian’s vague dark shape, blurring in too many places with the surrounding darkness of the smaller chamber. Yet Silas understood the flagellant was kneeled by the water, washing himself:

“Do you want to bathe?” the brawler asked:

“Not with you standing there, no!” was the answer. Silas chuckled and turned around, back into the bigger chamber:

“Careful, Damian! One day you might have to take that back!”

The flagellant snorted. By no means he would get in the water with the brawler standing nearby – unable to see him in detail or not. Yet apparently, Silas had gone to lie down again.

Damian waited for a while, waited for any indication that Silas was somehow watching him. The flagellant shook his head, baffled with the extent of his paranoia, but maybe only now, that he was more free than ever, could he understand how ridiculous he had been with the stressful thoughts that Silas _could see him_ and _hear him_ when he clearly couldn’t. Humanly couldn’t.

Since the brawler wasn’t around, Damian quickly undressed and got in the cold water.

* * *

 

“What is this place?” Damian asked with a frown, later, as Silas handed him a plate with bread, cheese and smoked meat. He had noticed the brawler’s makeshift table didn’t quite look like a table, despite the fur covering it, and he felt suddenly curious as to where he had been brought to. With luck, Silas might tell him something useful for later, to escape…

The brawler tilted his head, grabbed his own plate from the table and sat at the feet of the bed, facing the flagellant:

“Crypts,” Silas replied calmly. Damian, however, immediately stopped chewing the piece of cheese he had put in his mouth and looked around with wide eyes. “Both chambers. But the dead have left years ago, little before the walls in the smaller chamber collapsed because of the water spring.”

“The dead left?” the flagellant repeated in horror:

“I saw it all! A necromancer called them from their stone sarcophagi and they rose again!” Silas told proudly.

Damian swallowed down the cheese and looked around once more, disturbed:

“You can't _see_!!" Damian reminded Silas, who simply grunted in response. Then Damian shook his head, disapprovingly. "Evil, heathen sorcery…” the flagellant snarled. “The dead are to be left in peace!”

“Why?”

“Because the Light said so! It is written! In the Holy Scriptures!”

“Your religion is pathetic!! Why not use all available resources?” Silas chuckled. “If you served in life, you can serve in death as well! It’s an honour!”

“No, the dead must be left alone! In peace!” Damian looked around once more, to the many small niches in the wall near the ceiling that now held candles. “And the reliquaries?”

“What are those?” Silas asked with genuine curiosity. Damian devoured his slice of smoked meat, chewing angrily, and cast another hateful look at the brawler. “I remember there were tiny sarcophagi, are they reliquaries? What’s in them? They didn’t answer the necromancer’s call.”

“Reliquaries are not sarcophagi… They’re containers for parts of the body of saints, or their clothing, or some object they touched! Too holy and powerful for your sorcerers!”

Silas frowned and started to play a little with the food on his plate. He didn’t know what was a saint, but he supposed it should be important for the religious misguided like Damian:

“The reliquaries were destroyed,” he said, opting to leave his ignorance aside for a moment.

The flagellant resumed to curse Silas and his cult, until silence stretched between them.

* * *

 

Damian’s stiffened joints and legs recovered faster than Silas’ poorly stitched side. His confidence was back, and he was sure that now he would finally manage to take down the brawler. He just needed the perfect opportunity, and eventually the perfect opportunity presented itself when Silas went to bathe.

At first, the flagellant didn’t realize this was the opportunity he had been waiting for. He thought the brawler had simply gone to shave, and Damian was sitting on his usual spot of floor, free of carpets, when Silas returned, stored the shaving material and looked at Damian with a smirk and a lack of nicks and cuts that still surprised Damian:

“I’m going to bathe. Do you wish to make me company?” the brawler purred, his croaky voice coated with excessive sweetness, and Damian scrunched up his face in disgust:

“Die, cur…” the flagellant grunted, only to have Silas crouching in front of him and holding his chin strongly:

“In a bad mood, are we?” he teased, then released the flagellant and walked into the smaller chamber.

And just as Damian was about to curse him again… he noticed this was the perfect opportunity he had been waiting for. He stood up, slowly, collected the chain of his wrist shackles on his hands to prevent any noise and, carefully and silently, approached the doorway to the smaller chamber.

Silas was already in the water, but he was near the debris and empty stone sarcophagi that formed the walls of the small pool. He was standing with his back to the entrance, and was more concerned about washing himself while trying to keep his stitched side dry than about looking out for the flagellant.

Damian, from the doorway, was once again assaulted by the gnawing fear that Silas could _hear him_ : his heartbeat, his breathing. The flagellant then shook his head, reminding himself Silas was simply a brawler – simply a man – and therefore had no supernatural hearing or sense of smell. As long as the flagellant was careful and didn’t rush things, he would succeed.

Carefully, Damian held the chain of his wrist shackles and spread his arms, stretching and tensing the remaining chain. Then, holding his breath, he stepped into the smaller chamber, being careful not to slip and make a sound. Moving like this, barely breathing and being extremely careful at how his feet touched the ground, felt like an eternity. An eternity was too much… it gave Silas plenty of time to finish bathing, turn around and see him, hear him… and then, what would Damian say? How would he avoid being drowned or touched or worst… both?

And yet, Silas was right there in front of him. His back turned at the flagellant, innocently splashing in the water with his hands – probably, Damian thought with a roll of his eyes, ridiculously amused at how it felt. The important was that Silas was unaware of Damian’s presence and he was close enough to the debris, so Damian could stand on dry grounds while towering over Silas and using the chain of his wrist shackles as a garrotte to strangle the brawler.

Damian held his breath again and, carefully and slowly, stopped by the waterside and began to bend forwards, so slowly and carefully and not even daring to blink his eyes. He could hear his heartbeat and maybe Silas could as well, but the chain was past the brawler’s head, now all it would take was lowering it to the neck and pull and…

The flagellant lowered the chain swiftly and pulled it towards him, crossing his hands behind Silas’ neck. The brawler gasped as the chain made contact with his neck and began to constrict him. And Damian smiled triumphantly, because this was it! He would finally defeat the brawler, eradicate a heathen, kill for the Light.

But Silas snarled, gasping for air, and fast like snakes striking, his hands moved back, to hold Damian’s wrists. At first the flagellant thought it a feeble attempt at fighting back… but then he felt it, felt the powerful tug at his arms combined with Silas’ reckless abandon of his body as the brawler dove forwards as a dead weight… and Damian’s own precarious position to remain balanced on his feet.

With a surprised yelp, the flagellant was dragged forwards, falling in the water at an awkward angle. He still held the chain in the straggling position, stubbornly, but the moment his body was engulfed by the cold water he instinctively released the chain and tried to balance himself, to resurface. The water wasn’t deep, but panic struck him as he remembered the brawler forcing him under the water, and so his priority was now to get up, breathe.

Yet the chain of his wrist shackles was still around Silas’ neck, though useless. The brawler was underwater as well, kneeled, right next to Damian, and he was quicker to free himself and stand. The water around Silas became crimson. The stitches were broken and the wound was bleeding again.

Damian clumsily stood as well, taking in a deep breath. The brawler stood right in front of him, looking at him with wide eyes, surprised and furious. Damian lost no time and launched forwards, hitting the brawler in the chest with his shoulder and unbalancing him against the debris that formed the pool. He heard Silas cry out in pain when his back collided with stone.

Yet the brawler, enraged, slapped Damian’s lumbar with an open hand, with all his might, and it was the flagellant’s turn to scream in pain. His knees buckled and he fell, searing pain spreading up his spine and weakening his limbs.

It was all Silas needed. With a grunt, the brawler held Damian’s hood and forced his head into the water:

“Sneaky, aren’t we?” Silas growled, repeatedly pulling up and pushing down the flagellant’s head, like he was holding a cloth and soaking it. Damian tried to struggle, to break free, but Silas managed to hold one of his shackled wrists in an iron grip, compromising even more his balance and practically ceasing his chances of breaking free.

Still, Damian kept struggling. Struggling and coughing and breathing, though he barely had time to breathe. His heart pounded way too fast and way too loudly, it would surely jump out of his chest. He wanted to use his legs, stand up, kick Silas, do something – but his lumbar hurt so much, and he could barely feel his legs.

Until, in his struggle against Silas’ attempted drowning, Damian hit his head against the wall of debris forming the pool. At first he didn’t notice, but then the pain came, overwhelming, and he had to clench his jaw and whimper. The world swayed and darkened, his body grew limp and, like he had entered a tunnel, the sounds of water and Silas’ grunts slowly faded away.

* * *

 

Damian became slowly aware of a splitting headache and of ringing in his ears. He frowned and whimpered softly, and thought about raising a hand to touch his head. Thought of it, because he felt way too sluggish to move. So he just sighed in resignation, but the pain became uncomfortably annoying, and Damian slowly opened his eyes.

The world was merely a dim blur. It also appeared to spin, and it made Damian whimper again and shut his eyes. Besides the splitting headache, he began to feel lightheaded, and it was so uncomfortable that he tried to move to somehow appease that feeling, find a more comfortable position. But his body didn’t want to, and he ended up whimpering again:

“Awaken, are we?” a croaky, hoarse voice grunted next to Damian.

The flagellant just mumbled something and tried to open his eyes again. The world was still a dim blur, and it was still spinning. Damian shut his eyes, nauseated. He was lying in something soft, and he wished whatever it was, it would swallow him into softness and comfort and save him from his misery:

“Damian?”

The flagellant frowned and opened his eyes again. A dark figure looming over him was now part of his blurry world, and Damian frowned in confusion. He hurriedly closed his eyes again, nauseous, and whimpered:

“A beautiful mess, aren’t we?” Silas grumbled and lied down again with a pained huff.

After a while, Damian replied to him:

“Uh. We…?” he slurred, a hint of confusion in his voice. Silas sighed and rolled over his back, so that he wouldn’t put weight on his injured side:

“Yes, Damian…”

“W-who’s… we…?”

Silas turned his head to look at Damian, lying on his back right next to him. The movement made his sore throat extremely uncomfortable and he coughed.

Damian flinched with the noise, and stubbornly opened his eyes again. This time the world wasn’t spinning, and he slowly turned his head to the side. A blurred face came to view, and Damian frowned in confusion:

“Who a-are… y… you…?” he slurred. The man lying with him groaned in suffering, then coughed:

“Are you serious?!”

“D-don’t y… y… yell…” Damian closed his eyes and tried to become one with the soft surface he was lying in. “Uh… m-my head…”

Silas cursed softly and rubbed his face with his hands, exasperated. He mentally prayed to his gods – especially to the Heart of Darkness, the most powerful of them all – that the flagellant hadn’t hit his head too hard, because dealing with the outcome of that situation was the last thing he needed in his current condition.

Damian, however, eventually remembered what happened after a few moments of silence. That is… remembered everything but how he had gotten in the brawler’s bed with a horrid headache, nauseated and with ringing in his ears. His mouth felt dry and he grimaced, and for once was glad to be in such a comfortable place that appeased his misery:

“Uh… b-brawler… Silas…?” he called lowly. Silas, that was the brawler’s name… Damian had never used it, yet remembered it. It felt strange pronouncing that name, and it left a bitter taste in his mouth. Maybe because Damian knew he was at the brawler’s mercy once more. The flagellant sighed, both tired and defeated: he just wanted to get out of this vicious cycle of failed assassination attempts and being forced into submission again. Why wouldn’t the Light assist him? Why did the Light insist in making him dwell in those chambers?

“Hm?” Silas grunted, sighing in relief. Seemed the flagellant was alright. Had even called him by the name, something that had never happened before:

“D-do y-you… have w… water…?” Damian slurred, turned his head to look at the brawler and opened his eyes. “Y-you’re b… blurred…”

Silas narrowed his eyes, then sighed in annoyance:

“I should let you die of thirst…” the brawler grunted, but slowly pushed himself up. “Sneaky, treacherous bastard…”

“Then let…” Damian grunted in return and tried to roll over his side, curl up, be more comfortable than simply lying on his back. All he did, however, was twisting his body awkwardly and jolt his head, that throbbed uncomfortably, spreading a renewed wave of pain and nausea throughout his body. And the flagellant whimpered miserably, because he was used to physical pain, pain that came from severed flesh, pain that would grow stronger and sting and pierce the more he moved and whipped himself. That pain was addicting, ecstatic, and the result of it was a purifying bleeding. Yet this state he was in? Ridiculous, incapacitating, reducing the mighty flagellant to a wailing pitiful wreck– and Damian hated his current condition as vigorously as he hated Silas.

Yet Silas brought him a bowl of water, rolled him over his back again and lifted his head carefully to help him to drink:

“You’re insufferable…” Silas complained lowly and coughed:

“No, y-you are… with your stubbornness… to keep me alive…” Damian replied in annoyance when he finished the water.

Silas didn’t have the patience to put the bowl back in place, so he simply left in near the mattress and lied down again, slowly and carefully. The stitches of his wound had broken, ripping off the thin scar in the process, and all the movement had damaged the recovering slashed muscle. Now the wound was open and hurt again, but hopefully it wasn’t bleeding anymore.

Brawler and flagellant lied together, in silence, in opposite sides of the bed, each of them tormented with his own little tragedy. Moments later, Damian tried to change position again, lie on his side to be more comfortable. But all he managed was twisting his body again – fortunately, this time with no jolts to his head.

Silas looked to the opposite side of the bed, to see a disfigured shape where Damian’s body should be:

“What are you doing?” he mumbled, and received a grunt as an answer. Silas sighed, annoyed, pushed himself up to a sitting position and scooted closer to Damian. “You’re pathetic,” he stated as he helped the sluggish flagellant to properly roll over his side.

Damian was finally able to curl up and sighed in satisfaction, finally finding himself in a much more comfortable positon:

“I hate you,” he slurred at the brawler, who returned to his initial position:

“The feeling is mutual, some times. Like when you insist in attacking me…” Silas replied and coughed.

And silence stretched between them again.

* * *

 

Damian drifted out of sleep with a familiar feeling of empty stomach. His first thought was that he was growing weak, if an empty stomach could wake him up like that. His second thought was that he would eat later, because he was just too comfortable to move.

And that realization made him open his eyes and clumsily push himself up, slightly stunned. He looked down, at the blankets and furs covering him, and at the pillows and bolsters where he had rested his head on, and for a moment couldn’t remember why he was there and not on his favourite patch of carpet-free floor, and why he was simply in underwear, and why his hood and collar were gone again.

A faint headache reminded him of why he was in Silas’ bed, and Damian groaned in dismay. On the bright side, the ringing in his ears and the nausea were gone, though the headache and sluggishness persisted. In fact, the shackles on his wrists felt too heavy – and he could feel it now, his ankles were restrained again, and the shackles felt equally impossibly heavy.

He looked over his shoulder, remembering Silas had lied down next to him, feeling a sudden panic about having slept on the same bed as the brawler – he would have to drag himself out of the bed and cleanse himself and tend to his burden of souls, despite his current condition.

His eyes fell on Silas, whose back was turned at him.

There was a dark bruise on Silas’ lower back, and it was certainly big, yet the blanket hanging on the brawler’s waist probably covered most of it. Looking at the bruise, Damian felt surprised about the brawler having walked away from colliding with the debris just with that, instead of a worse injury. Frowning, he dragged himself closer, to inspect the bruise.

By the soft rising and falling of Silas’ side, the brawler should still be sleeping.

The flagellant was now close enough to take a good look at the bruise. Dark and slightly swollen, and certainly painful. Yet now that Damian looked closer, it wasn’t such a surprise anymore that Silas had simply gotten bruised: the brawler’s back was very muscular, with enough bulk to protect the spine and ribcage from every blow that wasn’t made with a sharp and cutting object. Damian allowed himself to admire the brawler’s muscular back, and concluded that Silas could easily carry an armour.

Then the thought of Silas, a cultist brawler, in an armour made Damian snicker and shake his head, because the flagellant knew only three types of men wore armours: noble knights, crusaders and mercenaries. Silas had all the features of nobility, but having been brought into the dungeons as a toddler immediately gave away that he had certainly came from a poor family, probably peasants – and those who were not of noble birth could not be knights. The idea of Silas in a crusader armour was outrageously ridiculous… but not the thought of him in a mercenary armour. Silas could be a mercenary, were he not a cultist.

However… if Silas weren’t a cultist… he couldn’t be a mercenary, either. Damian’s snicker died, because Silas, being blind, would be nobody outside those dungeons. Merely a beggar, another stray, the kind of man who cannot wear an armour. And if Silas had made a living outside the dungeons, maybe he wouldn’t even have the body to carry an armour. Maybe he would be skinny, and fragile, and malnourished… a man someone like Damian – with strength and bulk – would easily snap in two. The flagellant grimaced, because he clearly hadn’t succeeded in snapping Silas in two. He hadn’t even succeeded in strangling him.

Damian’s eyes moved to look at Silas’ neck, and he bent slightly over the brawler.

Silas’ neck was heavily bruised where the chain had constricted him. But, as the flagellant remembered the brawler’s voice – hoarse, accompanied by cough – the damage was probably bigger than just bruising.

“Are you going to suffocate me with a pillow, now?” Silas croaked suddenly, startling Damian, who hurriedly put some distance between him and Silas. The brawler rolled over his back, slowly, his injured side complaining for having supported his weight – Silas mentally cursed himself for having lied on it the moment the pain was gone. Now the pain was there again, and he felt tired, and turned his head to look at the flagellant. “Still sneaky, are we?”

The flagellant didn’t answer, feeling like he had felt when nodding, then answering verbally, only to have the brawler grunt at him that he had seen the gesture – feeling like a child, scolded over nothing in front of a crowd. Silas looked – and sounded – tired… and Damian himself _was_ tired, he realized, not simply sluggish. He was tired of putting up a constant fight when he didn’t need to – he could see it now, that he was doing it all wrong: he should be taking advantage of Silas’ ridiculous attempt to convert him to regain full strength and learn more about the enemy… maybe gain Silas’ trust and escape when he had the chance. But all he had done until the moment was simply exhaust Silas – Silas’ patience – and make his situation more difficult.

He had had his ankles free. Now, they were restrained again, and maybe it wouldn’t take long until he was put in a hog tie, just like in the beginning, when Silas whipped him and left him alone in the smaller chamber, by the chilly waterside.

The Light had been watching Damian all along – had protected him, given him… a chance in a lifetime, using Silas’ words. And Damian had failed to see it. For that, he should be punished.

But now he had to make amends.

“I was just…” But Damian trailed off, shook his head. “I didn’t know you were awaken…” Silas just grunted and the flagellant shifted uncomfortably. “Your side… how is it?”

“It won’t kill me…” Silas grunted and coughed. Damian was sure the brawler’s throat was sore:

“The stitches broke,” Damian remembered crimson water. Silas chuckled lowly, but pressed a hand over the wound on his side. There was dried blood on the bandage, and the flagellant was almost sure the brawler wasn’t aware of that:

“Yes, thanks to you…” Silas accused, annoyed, and that made Damian frown and open his mouth to snap at the brawler, tell him Silas was responsible for all this mess… but he didn’t. He just sighed and looked away, unable to look at the brawler’s unseeing grey eyes, unsettlingly piercing:

“Let me stitch you,” Damian muttered.

Silas clenched his jaw and arched an eyebrow. He wasn’t in the mood – or condition – to fight off Damian again. He was tired, so tired of trying to build something that the flagellant ultimately destroyed. It was tempting to simply give up, sacrifice Damian to the Heart of Darkness and put an end to this ridiculous self-designated task… before the flagellant successfully killed him.

The day before had been a somewhat terrifying reminder that, even though Damian wasn’t a warrior… he had the body and strength of one, and having his hands stained with the blood of others didn’t seem to be a problem.

On the other hand – and Silas licked his lips – he had to confess it had been extremely rewarding to be able to talk to Damian. To be open. And he wanted more of it, wanted it so badly… And Silas had to admit he enjoyed measuring strength with the flagellant, feel Damian’s massive body and see how far it would go – it would be even more enjoyable if Damian wasn’t constantly plotting against him, and if the sparring was simply a game between them.

And so the brawler sighed, looking at Damian’s dark shape.

* * *

 

“You must be saturated with dark magic…” the flagellant grunted as he gave a final pull to the thread and cut it. He reached out for the nearby roll of bandages and started to wrap the brawler’s side. Dark magic was the only reasonable explanation – Silas’ wounded side should be infected by then… but it wasn’t. The wound was ugly, but healthy:

“My superiors have better things to do than healing battle wounds,” Silas replied and coughed. The wound still hurt, but now that it was properly stitched it didn’t feel so bad:

“The Light heals… Servants of Light heal…” the flagellant grunted and fixed the bandage in place. With a huff, he scrambled to his feet and was momently dizzy as he stood. His head ached and now so did his knees, for having been kneeling on stone to stitch the brawler. Damian trudged out of the small chamber, shoulders sagged, and stopped in the middle of the bigger chamber, looking at his much-preferred patch of carpet-free floor: it was the right place to be, with no comfort or luxuries… no matter how much Damian’s body complained at the thought of lying on cobble stone.

Silas joined the flagellant in the smaller chamber, walking stiffly and carrying the medical supplies:

“You definitely heal…” Silas grunted in agreement, because at least Damian could stitch wounds properly, unlike him. The thought that, once Damian was on the right path, Silas would have someone to take care of his injuries, was enough to lighten his mood and make him feel that spark of possessiveness towards the flagellant again. Silas would have someone to help him… while no one else had.

He stored the medical supplies and went to lie on the bed, on his back. He watched in silence as Damian simply stood in the middle of the chamber – no more than a dark shape, yet Silas knew exactly what the flagellant was thinking about. He crossed his arms behind his head, but they should leave further talking to when his throat wasn’t a constant source of pain and his voice was back to normal:

“You hit your head quite hard, you shouldn’t be sleeping on the floor…” he simply stated, and with that the brawler was done talking for the rest of the day.

Damian frowned and looked at the brawler. He took both hands to his head and, carefully, touched the big bump on it, where he had hit against the stone. It hurt to the touch, and remembering its presence seemed to strengthen the prevailing headache and tiredness:

“My burden must take precedence,” Damian grunted, and he somewhat grudgingly made his way to his favourite spot on the floor, kneeled and then lied on his side.

The cold cobble stone against his body was extremely uncomfortable, and there were no pillows or bolsters for Damian to rest his aching head on, nor were there blankets and furs to cover himself – even if being in underwear, in his current condition, was the least of his concerns. However, the flagellant simply sighed, resigned, because he was alive simply to suffer… and so he would, he would suffer for the Light, carry on with his duties.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Opinions? Please?


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you kind people for the kudos. ;-;

There was an awkward silence between them.

Damian remained quiet, in his patch of floor free of carpets, and he avoided as much as he could looking at or talking to the brawler. He expected some kind of punishment for his latest assassination attempt – the much-dreaded touching, but days gone by and such didn’t happen; and he had been given his clothes again – though his collar and hood were gone once more -  and his arms were still restrained forwards, and he was still given food and water and the shaving material was still put at his disposal – and so he could bleed, purify himself, beg pardon for having been so… so blind.

It was a dangerous game Silas played. Dangerous and, perhaps, extremely stupid. But since the flagellant was constantly giving him a false sense of security, it was now the brawler’s turn. Besides, Silas wanted his side to heal fully, and he could only hope and pray to his gods that the blissful quietude between him and the flagellant wasn’t Damian tricking him again; for it had felt too real – the flagellant’s willingness to tend to his wound, the day Silas showed up wounded and the day Silas had broken the stitches. There hadn’t been care or anything… simply willingness. And the brawler didn’t want to throw that away, no matter how risky it was, and he wanted to see what that willingness would become.

Few days after the incident, Silas put on his mask and left. Damian noticed he didn’t take the claws, and that was enough to make the flagellant start an indignant monologue on how he was stuck with a sinful, deviant fornicator and would have to endure it until finding the perfect chance to escape.

Silas returned sometime later with a basket of bread, cheese, smoked meat and wild berries and Damian immediately felt slightly ashamed for his quick judgement. To comfort his conscience, he blamed the brawler for being such a debaucher.

Silas set the basket on his makeshift table, then removed his mask:

“Do you think the stitches can be removed?” the brawler asked quietly. His croaky voice was back to normal and his throat wasn’t sore anymore.

Damian frowned: it had been some days, since he had last heard the brawler. Silas’ voice was croaky as usual, though there was still a bruise where the chain had constricted the neck. The wound in the brawler’s side and the bruise on his lower back were hidden by the stomach piece, and that made Damian recall what Silas had told him about how the cultists appeared not to take care of each other.

“Let me see,” Damian requested.

Silas removed his stomach piece and approached Damian, so that the flagellant could take a good look at his side. Apparently, the wound had closed enough to remove the stitches. Still, Damian shook his head:

“No, not yet,” he said as a way of complementing his gesture, just in case Silas had failed to see it. “Some more days.”

Silas hummed, understanding, returned to the makeshift table and grabbed a handful of wild berries from the basket:

“Do you want some?” the brawler asked.

The flagellant hesitated, then stretched a hand:

“Just a few…” he grunted.

They ate in silence, Silas pacing back and forth in the sleeping chamber and Damian sitting on the cobblestone, his back against the wall.

The flagellant thought that, if he talked to Silas, the brawler would be pleased. With luck, pleased to the point of unshackling his ankles again. Damian sighed, the thought that interacting with a heathen was a betrayal to the Light still present in his mind, even if he had accepted the fact that keeping constant struggles with the brawler would take him nowhere and that maybe the Light wanted it to be this way. The way of dialogue, of patience and mercy.

Why? Damian didn’t know, and he shouldn’t try to guess, but oh, how he would appreciate to know exactly for how long, how and why he would have to put up with Silas:

“Why didn’t one of your harlots help you?” Damian asked. Silas stopped and turned his head to look at him, frowning slightly:

“Not harlots. Fellow brawlers and priestesses and ascended cultists,” the brawler informed, and Damian merely narrowed his eyes in disgust. “Blunt, are we?”

“Maybe,” the flagellant grunted. “So? Why didn’t they?”

Silas went to sit at the feet of the bed and bent forwards, tilting his head. He could tell Damian, the flagellant already knew the biggest deal about him. However… why should he? The flagellant never shared a thing and was constantly putting up fights. Silas had no reasons to trust Damian and his chatting, no matter how much he wanted it.

The brawler shrugged, figuring that he should tell Damian is reasons, since the flagellant didn’t have the sensibility to understand what the brawler wanted from him:

“I won’t tell you anything about me, while you don’t share something about you,” Silas stated.

That made Damian groan and roll his eyes, exasperated:

“You have the maturity of a child!” he accused, because only children would pout and hold information hostage for such meaningless reason. Silas simply snickered:

“I might have learned that from you…”

“Do you do it on purpose? Come up with such immature comebacks?”

Silas grinned, visibly pleased with himself. Damian clenched his jaw, and oh, how he hated the brawler. Damian had never hated so much in his life. However, he had to admit Silas – in his extremely mediocre, childish and poor reasoning – was right: Damian had shared nothing about himself. And it seemed that, to fall on Silas’ good graces again, he would have to.

The flagellant sighed and looked up, to the ceiling, and mentally begged the Light to bless him with patience:

“Fine… what do you want to know?” Damian grunted and looked back to Silas.

The brawler’s eyebrows shot up to his hairline in surprise. Silas tilted his head, trying to figure whether Damian was being ironic or honest, and decided it was worth trying:

“Why are you a flagellant? Were you offered to the Light, like I was to the Heart of Darkness?” the brawler asked.

Damian clenched his jaw. He hesitated: he didn’t have the patience nor the good will to put up with Silas. But if he didn’t… then he would be shying away from a task given to him by the Light. This was suffering, the flagellant realized with dread, a suffering with no whip, no purifying blood. And he, as a flagellant, could not walk away from it.

Damian sighed:

“No, I wasn’t offered… I chose this path on my own free will…” he replied. Silas moved to sit on the carpets, supporting his back against the bed:

“Why?” he asked. “Why would you martyrize yourself for the sake of others?”

The flagellant took in a deep breath. That was something he was asked too often, but every time he answered, no one understood what he meant. He didn’t expect it to be different with Silas:

“There are so many people who have turned their backs to the teachings of the Light for the most varied reasons! They are lost! They need help!” Damian paused and shrugged. “Someone must help them. No one should be lost…”

Silas pulled his knees to his chest, hugged his legs and rested his chin on the top of his knees:

“And you decided that was up to you? Ridiculous!” Silas frowned. “Maybe the people you want so desperately to save have good reasons to turn away from your blasted Light. Maybe they don’t want your help.”

“I don’t expect you to understand, the concept of selflessness is beyond your grasp!”

“No it’s not, but the idiocy of martyring one’s flesh for someone else is! It’s… barbaric!” Silas then crawled to Damian and sat cross-legged in front of him, his grey eyes fixed on the dark shape of the flagellant’s head.

And the flagellant, much to his dismay, realized he still tried to make eye-contact with Silas:

“Convert, and you won’t need to worry about a burden that isn’t yours to carry,” the brawler said softly, and placed his hands on Damian’s shoulders. The flagellant tensed and tried to wriggle away, disappear into the wall behind him:

“You know nothing about compassion! Piety!” the flagellant accused and tried to push the brawler away with the tips of his fingers, like Silas was a particularly disgusting thing. Yet the brawler kept leaning into Damian, trapping him against the wall, and the two men ended kneeling, in front of each other, Silas’ hands still on Damian’s shoulders, Silas’ unseeing grey eyes looking at where the brawler presumed Damian’s face was – for the closer Silas was to something, more difficult it was for him to perceive the shape of what he was seeing.

The flagellant’s breathing became shallow: if he breathed too deep, his chest would touch Silas’, and that was the last thing Damian wanted. The brawler’s proximity and hold on him was claustrophobic, and the warmth coming off from him seemed to burn. Damian began to look around, frantically, searching for an escape:

“Oh, I do!” Silas hissed, baring his teeth, showing his pointy canine teeth. “Why do you think you are here, Damian? Hm? I cannot let you waste away!”

“Whatever sinful goals you have for me, it’s not compassion and it’s not piety!” Damian spat, and he really needed some distance between them, he couldn’t stand Silas that close, and the Light forgive him – but if Silas remained like that, Damian would just start another useless fight to get the brawler away from him.

There was a sudden knock on the door. As gradually as he had approached, Silas put some distance between them, released Damian’s shoulders and stood up, grabbed his mask and walked to the door.

The flagellant hurriedly scrambled to his feet and stumbled into the smaller chamber, the chains of the shackles restraining him rattling furiously as he moved. He needed to wash his skin – and scratch himself, urgently.

Upon hearing Damian, Silas turned around abruptly to face him, supposing the flagellant was trying to attack him again. But all he saw was Damian’s shape clumsily making its way into the pitch-black blur that was the entry to the smaller chamber. The flagellant clearly had better things to do than attacking Silas, so the brawler let out a breath he hadn’t noticed he had held. Silas put on his mask and proceeded his way to the door.

A vague and small dark shape stood out of the general darkness of the circular hall, poorly lit by the skylight high above in the ceiling – a priestess. Silas came out of the sleeping chambers, closing the door softly behind him. He approached the priestess and bowed his head respectfully.

“You’ve been missing, brawler,” the priestess stated, and Silas recognized her voice; that was the priestess that had allowed him to keep Damian alive. “Is the flagellant already broken?”

“A bit,” the brawler replied carefully. “It’s going slow, but we’ll get there.”

The priestess hummed and tilted her head to the side, casting a curious glance at the stitched wound in Silas’ side:

“You’re injured. The real reason you’ve been missing, then,” she said. “How did it happen?”

“Patrolling.”

The priestess approached Silas, looking more closely at the stitched wound. She then looked up at the brawler and stretched her lips in a smile:

“It doesn’t seem so bad, now…” Her fingers wrapped Silas’ wrist, slowly. “You could make me a favour, brawler.”

“I could,” Silas nodded, but he didn’t feel like it. He would rather go back to his chambers and lie down, heal fully, maybe talk a bit more to Damian. The last thing Silas wanted was to open the stitches again, even if the wound didn’t hurt anymore: he had no ways to see if the wound was in fact already healed or not, so he had to trust Damian’s judgement.

However, he couldn’t refuse a favour to a priestess. Especially that priestess.

* * *

 

Damian kneeled by the waterside and stretched his hands to the water. That was when he heard the heavy oak door of the sleeping chambers closing, and he frowned and crawled to the entry of the chamber he was in.

Silas was gone.

Praising the Light for the unexpected moment of peace, Damian crawled back to the water, undressed and took the chance to wash himself fully – his skin had been way too close to Silas’. If only the shaving material was outside the trunk, Damian would be able to fully cleanse himself; but he would have to be content with simply washing and scratching.

He hurried up, he didn’t want Silas to come back and walk on him while he was naked and in the water – just in case the brawler decided to take revenge from the latest assassination attempt and tried to drown Damian again. However, when Damian returned to the bigger chamber, wet and cold, Silas hadn’t returned yet. The flagellant sat on his preferred patch of floor and took the chance that he was alone to pray.

Damian prayed for a long time, and there was still no sign of Silas. The flagellant, though enjoying the peace and quiet, found himself oddly bored: at least with the brawler there, Damian would keep his mind busy thinking about how much he hated Silas, and how much he wanted to leave that place, and just generally stressing about the brawler being there.

Yet now the large sleeping chamber was empty, and all that broke the overwhelming silence was the occasional rattling of the chains of Damian’s shackles and the constant sound of running water, from the spring in the smaller chamber.

The flagellant grew hungry, and he grudgingly stood on his feet and made his way to the table that was in fact a stone sarcophagus. Damian figured that, if he had to withstand Silas, he better eat and drink properly to avoid loss of strength and dizziness.

And Damian had just finished to assemble smoked meat, dried fruits and wild berries on a plate when Silas returned, closing the door softly behind him instead of slamming it like he usually did. The brawler then made a beeline to the flagellant, moving somewhat stiffly, and yanked his mask off his head:

“The stitches aren’t broken,” Silas said, a hybrid of a question and an extremely hopeful statement. Frowning in confusion, Damian looked at the wound on the brawler’s side, then shook his head. He thought about complementing his gesture with words, but Silas sighed in relief and walked past Damian, carelessly throwing his mask to the bed.

The brawler had left without his claws and the stomach piece, hadn’t brought any food and his shoulders were slightly scratched: he had been visiting one his harlots, and a wave of repulsion crawled over Damian and made him scrunch up his face in disgust. Cursing Silas and his cult in angry whispers, the flagellant sat on his favourite spot on the floor and began to eat.

Silas returned from the smaller chamber shortly after, dripping water and naked. Damian groaned in suffering and looked at his food with renewed interest.

“I can’t wait to get rid of these stitches,” Silas complained, poured himself some water and drank. “I hate stitches…”

“Apparently, your performance wasn’t compromised…” Damian grunted and stuffed his mouth with cheese before he started insulting Silas – which would contribute in no way to fall back on Silas’ good graces.  The comment made the brawler cock an eyebrow and smile, delighted. He put down his bowl of water and walked to the bed:

“Jealous, are we?” he teased and lied on his stomach, looking at the flagellant.

Damian, with his mouth full, had the grace of not replying.

* * *

 

Sadly for Damian, Silas decided he was going to spend some time sprawled on the bed while naked. The flagellant, not wanting to have to see it, simply turned his back to the brawler and stared at the wall.

When the silence between them had dragged for too long, Silas lifted his head from a pillow to look at Damian:

“Are you seriously sulking against the wall?” he asked, highly amused. Damian sighed audibly. “Look at me, Damian.”

“I will, once you put some clothes on…” the flagellant grunted in annoyance. Silas burst out laughing, and Damian clenched his jaw; how he hated that laughter!

“But Damian, we’re both men… there’s nothing to be embarrassed about!” The brawled pushed himself to a sitting position. He raised an eyebrow and smiled proudly. “And I’ve been told I’m a delicious sight!”

The flagellant slowly glanced over his shoulder, his eyes so wide in hatred and disgust he wouldn’t be surprised if they simply popped out of his face. He looked at Silas, sitting on the bed, naked, and opened his mouth to yell at the brawler, preach about dignity and modesty. Yet Damian simply looked back to the wall the faster he could, his cheeks burning with hatred, and he reminded himself that he wouldn’t fall on Silas’ good graces again by yelling at him.

The brawler simply stared at Damian curiously. He would like to know why Damian was so bothered by his nakedness, would like to know what it meant: shy interest or religious indoctrination?

“Why are you so annoyed?” Silas asked and lied on his back again. “Bodies are to be appreciated.”

“No, they are not!” Damian complained and held his head on his hands, like Silas’ question had caused him a massive headache. “Bodies are temples of the soul! They are to be kept pure!”

Silas propped his torso up, supporting himself on his elbows:

“But yours is heavily scarred,” he stated:

“I am a flagellant! My body-“

“Your body is quite exposed…” Silas teased and licked his lips.

Damian gaped, outraged, and turned around abruptly to look at the brawler. How he hated that man! He pointed a threatening index finger at Silas, a gesture than in any civilised place would cause fear of excommunation to the person being addressed and make them kneel and pray for mercy. Yet… that was no civilised place… and Silas couldn’t see the gesture:

“I flagellate!!!” Damian shrieked the obvious answer, the reason why his garments were so different from any other. He expected Silas to burst out laughing and bombard him with conversion nonsense again. Yet the brawler simply stared at him, like… like he pitied him.

Damian didn’t need pity. Damian did not need a cultist brawler’s pity. They were enemies, and enemies hated each other and sought each other’s destruction. And why would Silas pity him, when most of the religious people who shared Damian’s fate didn’t, despising him instead? Why would Silas pity him, when most of the common souls loathed him?

But didn’t Damian pity Silas as well, even if only slightly? Didn’t the flagellant pity Silas for his blindness, for his sad fate?

This reasoning made Damian furious. He had forgotten how to deal with displays other than of hate, despise and disgust, and had forgotten he could… he could feel. Hate. Pity. Something other than devotion and sense of duty. He jumped to his feet, intending to attack Silas, because all of this brought him more suffering and distress than his own flail.

But his ankles were restrained, he lost his balance and fell on the carpets. Silas chuckled but immediately became alert:

“Angry, are we?”

By the Light, I hate you…!, Damian thought as he slowly pushed himself up and crawled back to his spot. He hated the brawler. Hated that Silas made him feel hatred so strongly and passionately; hated that Silas could push him over the edge when no one else could; hated the sheer power Silas held over him, to make him hate and want to destroy someone other than himself; hated that he took Silas’ blindness in consideration, by complementing his gestures with words.

Silence stretched between them, with Damian staring at his feet while praying to calm down and Silas looking attentively to Damian, just to be sure the flagellant wouldn’t pull another surprise attack on him. Yet Silas chuckled, because, as long as he remained naked, he was pretty sure the flagellant wouldn’t dare touch him.

The brawler lied down again and crossed his arms behind his head. Teasing Damian was entertaining, though he considered that he should leave poking the beast for when his side was fully healed and he could defend himself from an eventual attack. Silas had no doubts Damian would have jumped at his throat if it hadn’t been for the shackles on his ankles.

That made him curious to know how far the flagellant would go to get rid of his shackles.

“Damian?” he called, and didn’t have an answer. “If you lie with me, I’ll remove your shackles. All of them.”

Damian’s head snapped up. Silas was lying. Had to be lying! Cruel, poisonous man! Truth was that Damian did want those shackles removed… but not like that. He might be a prisoner, locked in a pit of sin, but he was still a dignified flagellant:

“Never!” he growled. That made Silas roll his eyes in exasperation, but brought him a strange feeling of comfort: Damian was a man of principles, apparently unwilling to feign something he truly didn’t want in exchange for something he did want. It could only mean all his interactions with Silas – good and bad – were genuine, and the brawler liked it. Yet it also brought Silas bitterness, because feigning something in exchange for other he wanted had become so casual the brawler rarely could tell when he was being honest to himself.

He decided to make the deal more appealing, because Damian’s determined refusal had only made him want the flagellant lying there with him.

Damian watched as Silas stood up, walked to the smaller chamber and returned little later dressed in his black manskirt. Damian closed his eyes and rested his head against the wall, mentally thanking the Light for that miracle.

“Now that I am decent…” Silas’ voice interrupted Damian’s praying and the flagellant opened his eyes to look at the brawler, who was already lying on the bed again. “… you can lie here.”

“No!”

“I won’t even touch you!”

“No!”

“Fine!” Silas changed to a sitting position again, his croaky voice carrying the most petulant tone he could muster. “I’ll undress again… and I’ll sit next to you, Damian. I feel rather lonely.”

Damian let out the most pained sound he had ever made. Why did Silas insist so much in closeness and contact and soring his eyes with his nakedness?? Why wouldn’t Silas whip him, drown him, Damian already missed being drowned! It felt so much better than… than this!

Cursing, the flagellant scrambled to his feet and grudgingly made his way to the bed, to the side opposite to Silas. He sat, slowly, swung his legs over the mattress and then lied on his back, at the edge of the bed, stiff as a statue.

Silas smiled, delighted, and lied on his side. He maintained the distance Damian chose, determined not to ruin his victory. Feeling observed, though Silas couldn’t see him at all, the flagellant crossed his arms firmly over his chest and kept staring at the ceiling.

And they were silent.

Damian sighed tiredly as he began to feel worn off. His head and limbs felt heavy, like he had walked for miles carrying a great weight without food or water. Yet… all he had done had been discussing with Silas. The flagellant felt a pang of fear over how his hatred towards the brawler drained his energy from him: how was he supposed to defeat Silas, when the time was right, and escape… if the brawler exhausted him like that?

He closed his eyes for brief moments. He had to stay calm. Play along… gain Silas’ trust… find a way to escape. This was a challenge, the worst Damian ever had, but still a challenge… and he could not walk away from it.

The flagellant opened his eyes again and turned his head to look at Silas:

“Why didn’t one of your harlots tend to your wound?” he asked again, because it nagged him how such debauchery could take place if, apparently, there wasn’t a single trace of care. Silas frowned:

“Stubborn, aren’t we?”

“Very…”

Silas grimaced, but it was only fair; earlier Damian had shared about himself and now was lying there. Besides, the flagellant already knew the most important thing about Silas… With a sigh, the brawler turned on his back and crossed his hands behind his shaved head:

“I want to be favoured by the gods. I want to know what they know, have the power they have,” the brawler began, and Damian rolled his eyes at his pretentiousness: he, a blind brawler, aspiring to be equal to a god! “But like me… there are so many,” Silas paused and turned his head to look at Damian, who kept staring at him. “I’m just a brawler, Damian. And unlike some other brawlers, I can rely only in my physical strength. I have no way to contact the gods myself… but the priestesses and other ascended cultists have!”

“Why do you say you can rely only in your physical strength?” Damian frowned: wouldn’t anyone help that man in case he needed?

Silas laughed, but here was something joyless about it, something cold and resigned. The brawler looked away from Damian again, back to stare at the ceiling:

“I can’t read, Damian…” Silas mumbled. “I can’t read the sacred scriptures of my religion, nor its sacred spells… All I know is too little, but it’s the little I managed to memorize while hearing someone else read aloud.” The brawler chuckled, but still it sounded way too forced. “My fellows think me stupid, that I have only muscle and no brains…” The flagellant opened his mouth to speak, to interrupt Silas and remind him he just wanted a simple answer to a simple question. Damian did not want to hear the brawler’s unfortunate life story; did not want to have more reasons to pity Silas. He did not want to care. And yet, Damian couldn’t bring himself to say a word. It would be… cruel, to stop Silas from speaking. How many times had the brawler told that story to someone, anyway? Not to many people, judging by the hidden resentment in his croaky voice:

“If I favour my fellow brawlers, and priestesses, and ascended cultists, maybe I’ll please someone enough… and they’ll tell the gods about me,” Silas explained with a hint of hope in his voice and he smiled a little, like that thought was extremely comforting. His smile died, however, and he shrugged. “If someone knows I don’t see very well-“

“You’re blind,” Damian blurted out, but the brawler ignored him:

“-they’ll realise how easy it is to dispose of me… make it one less concurrent to the gods’ favours…” Silas finally explained.

Damian’s first reaction was clenching his jaw in outrage, because apparently Silas was easy to get rid of for everyone – but for him. Yet, there was that pitying feeling again, and the flagellant slowly unclenched his jaw and looked away from the brawler. It should be bad, being unable to count on and trust religious fellows… Damian knew many religious people despised him, but they would still help him if he needed – it had happened, and if he ever made it out of that place would surely happen again:

“Why won’t your gods see you by themselves and favour you?” Damian asked quietly:

“My gods have lives and problems of their own, they can’t always look at us! Unlike your Light, that does nothing else besides spying on you…” Silas replied, and the flagellant rolled his eyes, asking himself how he had allowed that small amount of pity towards the brawler and why it wouldn’t just leave and let him simply hate the brawler:

“I was going to say I’m sorry you lead such an unfortunate life, but leave it,” Damian grunted. Silas looked at him and grimaced, unpleased:

“At least I’m not a holy man abandoned by my group…”

“Those poor weaklings have no idea of their mistake, you can’t hold them guilty!”

“Do you hear yourself??” Silas propped his torso up with the help of an elbow and turned slightly to face Damian. His face was blank – oddly blank for a blind man so expressive, like the brawler didn’t know how to transmit whatever he felt towards the flagellant’s last statement. “Why are you so condescending to those who don’t deserve it? Who broke you like that?”

Damian opened his mouth to yell at Silas, yell that the brawler knew nothing about the ways of the Light. However, his initial words died way before making it past his lips, and all he did was rubbing his face with his hands, tiredly. Silas’ words were poisonous, and Damian didn’t want to dwell on the subject, didn’t want to acknowledge the brawler was right and see truth in his words: he had taken too long to grow past petty feelings towards those who didn’t understand him, and right now going back and doubting was everything he did not need:

“Didn’t your harlots ask why your neck is bruised?” he asked conversationally. Silas frowned:

“You didn’t answer my question.”

“You either drop the subject or I’ll go back to my spot,” Damian bargained. Silas went quiet and stared intensely at the flagellant’s dark shape. Damian’s refusal to defend his expression of his faith gave Silas the impression something about the whole subject bothered the flagellant. Which was good. The brawler decided it would be smarter not to push things further and force Damian to be defensive: they were talking in a relatively civilised way, Damian was asking things and was still lying on the bed.

Slowly, Silas lied down on his back again and crossed his hands behind his head. The flagellant puffed his chest proudly; he was getting good at that game:

“So?” he asked, and that made Silas chuckle:

“Curious, are we? Very well! The masks are not removed. Or how do you think I have successfully kept my secret, Damian?”

The flagellant narrowed his eyes, and yes, sadly for him, he felt extremely and unrequitedly curious about Silas’ interactions with the other cultists. How could Silas engage in more intimate activities and still hide his face? How could he engage in such activities if he didn’t trust the other cultists to accept his disability, in the first place?

“Why…?” he asked weakly in disbelief. Silas ostentatiously turned on his side to face Damian, tilting his head:

“Oh, but we are very interested in the subject, hmm?” Silas purred seductively. The flagellant’s answer was an apoplectic grunt. “But your face was hidden when I found you… Is it something you enjoy? Headgear?”

Damian widened his eyes in horror and clenched his jaw. He let out a strangled noise, a sign of badly contained wrath as he looked at Silas, who seemed to have proposedly put himself in a more exhibiting position: stretched legs under the black manskirt, cocked-up hip, arms stretched forwards towards the flagellant and tilted head, showing strong angles and a long neck.

The flagellant narrowed his eyes:

“You are disgusting!” he spat furiously and felt his cheeks redden. There, Silas was making him angry again. That brawler was insufferable.

Silas frowned, only to push himself to a sitting position that Damian mimicked hurriedly:

“You are unpleasant. You have the real problem…” Silas replied.

They bickered angrily at each other, until Damian rolled off the bed and crawled back to his spot of carpet-free floor, from where would be easier to repress the urge of strangling the brawler.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feedback is always appreciated and taken in consideration!


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you people for your kind feedback. ;-;

A last pull and Silas flinched slightly in discomfort:

“There, no more stitches,” Damian announced and Silas touched at his side, looking for the scar. His fingers finally brushed it, now without the protruding threads keeping the wound closed:

“Is it healed?” he asked, relief creeping into his voice.

Damian scrambled to his feet and grimaced at his knees, sore for having knelt on the stone: he wasn’t old, but he wasn’t getting any younger and apparently all the miles he had walked and the countless hours he had spent kneeling on the churches’ stone floors were starting to catch up to him:

“Yes… You can _perform_ all you want, the wound is healed…” the flagellant grunted and turned his back at the brawler, to make his way to the bigger chamber.

The brawler stared at Damian’s shape clumsily walking away, the chains of the ankle shackles rattling rhythmically as the flagellant moved. Now that his side was healed, Silas could knock out Damian, restrain him in a different way and make the flagellant go through a session of touching – that was their deal: Damian misbehaved, and Silas would touch him.

But should Silas do it? Because the flagellant had been relatively pacific those last days, and had even explained Silas what was a saint and why they were so important – all that without insulting, or provocations, and the brawler had noticed that if he didn’t incite Damian, the flagellant would engage in a reasonably civilized conversation with him. Silas wondered how many of Damian’s faith would be willing to hear him talk about saints, and he allowed himself to smirk a little, recalling as the flagellant’s voice grew from a resigned tone to a slightly enthusiastic one as the conversation about saints went on and on.

On the other side, Silas should follow their deal: the flagellant must learn somehow, and Silas must show rules are not to be broken, must show the flagellant **he** can either reward or punish according to Damian’s behaviour. He couldn’t let Damian think him weak-willed, or that he could be manipulated by pleasant talking and good behaviour. Silas should show himself merciless when the time was right, and this time did feel right.

But should Silas really…?

He strode to the flagellant, already by the entryway to the bigger chamber, and Damian yelped in surprise as he was brutally pinned against the wall, Silas’ massive body pressed against his and keeping him in place, the warmth coming off him burning Damian and his height and bulk giving the flagellant the impression that he couldn’t breathe anymore. The brawler held Damian’s chin in an iron grip and accidentally knocked their foreheads together – Damian’s face was closer than he had initially thought:

“I should go back to touching you,” Silas hissed. His eyes, grey and piercing, so close to Damian’s face, were oddly distant, looking at and past the flagellant, who still tried to make eye-contact with the brawler. “Take it from where we last stopped.”

Damian remembered all too well the feeling of Silas’ hand crawling up his leg and reaching his buttock. A glimpse of fear crossed his eyes and he clenched his jaw. He could fight off the brawler – fall again in the vicious cycle he had been trapped in since the beginning. Or he could endure Silas touching him, making him feel horrible things while mentally praying to the Light for forgiveness and absolution for what was being done to him – and hopefully, lose himself in praying and ignore the feeling of Silas’ big warm hands on his body, making him feel itching and burning with feather-light touches.

“But this time… I’ll let it go,” Silas grunted, interrupting Damian’s thoughts. The flagellant frowned, confused, and as quickly as he had pinned Damian against the wall, Silas put distance between them and released the flagellant’s face. “ _Only_ this time. You have been good.”

And he walked away, stretching, feeling finally free now that he didn’t have the stitches.

Damian remained against the wall, too shocked to move and breathing shallowly. Silas’ warmth was gone and the entryway to the bigger chamber felt abruptly chilly, to the point of giving Damian goose bumps. He still felt Silas’ fingers digging into his chin, and it would certainly leave light bruises. But… had he heard right? The brawler wouldn’t touch him?

Slowly, Damian pushed himself away from the wall and stumbled into the sleeping chambers.

Silas, wearing his mask, had finished buckling his stomach piece in place and was putting on his claws:

“No touching?” Was all Damian could ask, and hopefully two words would be enough to express the million questions he had. Oh, how he hated the brawler and his exquisiteness! He hated to be this confused.

Silas didn’t look at him, though:

“Unless you really want it, Damian. Needy, are we?”

“No!!!” Damian huffed his chest, offended. “But… _why_?”

“You’ve been good,” This time Silas turned his masked head to look at him. “I’ll be good if you’re good. And one day…” Silas took a step closer, pointing his claws at the flagellant, who immediately crossed his arms in front of his chest. “… one day you’ll enjoy it, you’ll enjoy that I touch you and will hate that I whip you, and that day you aren’t broken anymore.”

Damian just widened in eyes in supreme confusion, shaking his head slowly at a loss of what else to do:

“It’s not like it’s pleasurable to be whipped!” he snarled, with a last trace of hope that the brawler would whip him – or drown him – instead of touching him: it was bearable, and dignified. Silas chuckled:

“Oh, but it means nothing to you… It does… nothing. You know very little about yourself, hmm?”

“You don’t make sense!!”

Silas just flashed him a smile and turned his back at him. For a moment Damian felt truly insulted and considered going after Silas and _demand_ his punishment: what kind of captivity was that??

The brawler left, slamming the door shut, and Damian was alone, confused and angry and indignant – even if on the other hand he was grateful that he would not have to endure Silas’ touch.

Alone, Damian realized he was _finally_ doing something right: he had just evaded Silas’ punishment, which meant he was falling on the brawler’s good graces again – and therefore, doing what the Light wanted from him. This reasoning brought Damian a sense of peace he had not felt for a long time, and to show his gratefulness the flagellant spent a long time vigorously scratching his arms and shoulders.

* * *

 

The flagellant was snacking some dried fruits when Silas returned, slamming the door behind him and holding his manskirt up his knees. His boots were blackened with charcoal, and so were his arms, chest and face. Even his golden mask was smudged in black. Damian almost choked on some hazelnuts and he stared at the brawler with wide eyes from where he was standing, near the makeshift table:

“You are a sight to behold!” the flagellant commented, amused, and Silas, still holding his black garments over his knees, toed off his boots, clearly annoyed:

“Funny, aren’t we?” he grunted, then made a beeline towards the smaller chamber. Damian frowned and followed him:

“You definitely are, holding your garments like a maiden about to cross a river!” the flagellant teased.

The moment his feet left the carpets and touched stone, Silas immediately dropped his manskirt and pulled off his mask and claws:

“My patrol crossed the Hunter’s territory. It’s littered with ashes and burned wood and corpses, the stench is hideous. Seems he took one of us while I was recovering from my wound and today we were supposed to hunt him down for good. But he’s slippery, we couldn’t find him…” Silas explained, dropped his weapons and mask to the floor and removed his stomach piece.

Damian frowned, still snacking the remaining dried fruits in his hand:

“What Hunter?” he asked curiously. He had thought cultists, creatures of darkness and brigands were the only plagues in that cursed estate:

“He burns people on stakes! Be them vampires or not!” Silas began to undress. Damian’s frown deepened and he turned his back at the brawler, but didn’t leave. That new foe sounded somewhat familiar, bringing back memories of when Damian was young and had decided to follow a religious path, and seemed the brawler could give him information:

“Is he a cultist?” Damian inquired. He heard Silas jump into the water:

“No! He’s one of your religion! But instead of whipping himself he burns people, and carries condiments around his neck and-“

Damian burst out laughing.

His laughter was hoarse and wheezing, like it was rusty due to all those years without being used. Laughing was the last reaction the flagellant expected to have when dealing with the brawler. In fact, Damian had thought he would never laugh like that again. But oh, he was laughing, to the point he bent forwards and had to support his hands on his knees.

In the water, Silas turned to face Damian, his eyes wide in confusion. He couldn’t understand what was so funny about a dangerous lunatic on the loose burning down people, yet a smile crept on his lips and he tilted his head. He had made the flagellant laugh! He had said something that had amused Damian enough to the point of making him laugh, and that was certainly the best thing Silas had gotten from the flagellant so far.

Damian’s laughter ceased, though he sounded truly entertained when he spoke:

“Garlic,” he said, and Silas frowned:

“Garlic?”

“Yes. The condiment is called garlic.”

Silas mouthed a silent ‘oh!’. Garlic. Now he knew, and satisfied with the new bit of knowledge, he continued to wash himself as Damian chuckled quietly:

“The Hunter carries garlic, and sharp sticks and written parchment over his shoulders,” Silas proceeded, reciting what he had heard other cultists comment about the Hunter’s looks. Damian snorted, utterly amused by Silas’ childish description of his foe:

“Stakes, Silas… The sharp sticks are called stakes…” The flagellant paused and frowned, thinking. “Sounds… sounds like the vampire hunter… I’ve heard stories about that man, he was a monk. He was almost a legend, when I joined the Church.”

The flagellant heard Silas haul himself out of the water and stepped away slightly, out of instinct, even though he believed throwing him in the water to drown him was currently the last of Silas’ goals:

“A to-be saint?” the brawler asked, kneeled by the water and started to wash his clothes.

Damian snorted and shook his head:

“No. He’s a legend for bad reasons… He went mad, accusing innocent people of being vampires and murdering them… No trials, nothing. Immediate death. I was told he was excommunicated, but I’m not sure he knows that…”

“Seems our religions have a mutual enemy, then!” And even if Damian was standing with his back to Silas, he could hear the smile on the brawler’s voice, could imagine his lips stretched, baring his teeth and showing the pointy canine teeth. The irony was – yes, both Light and Darkness wanted nothing to do with that fanatic man.

“That won’t make us friends…” Damian stated matter-of-factly:

“Careful, Damian; you might have to take that back, later…” Silas replied and his words made the flagellant roll his eyes. “Bring me my boots, yes?”

The flagellant glanced over his shoulder, abruptly and outraged: wasn’t it enough to be a captive in a non-punishing captivity?, wasn’t it enough to put up with the brawler? Now he was a servant?

“Excuse me??” he shrieked, looking at Silas’ impassive face and ignoring his naked body, glistening softly in the weak light coming from the single torch above the entry between the two chambers.

“My boots, Damian… I need to wash them. And be careful, I don’t want ashes on my carpets!”

 

* * *

 

 

“How do you know how the renegade monk looks like?” Damian asked later, fiddling with the chains of his wrist shackles. He presumed Silas must have heard other cultists talk about the looks of the man, but it intrigued him how the brawler – blind – was able to pretend so well he wasn’t.

Silas was sitting cross-legged on the bed, with a blanket over his shoulders and his damp garments uncomfortably clamped to his legs. Damian was talkative, today – seemed Silas had made the right choice by letting him walk away with his latest attack. The brawler looked around the chambers, to the fuzzy bright spots that were the candles in the niches that used to contain reliquaries, and allowed himself to smile a little, feeling triumphant. His gods could have been watching and might have decided to help, or not, which meant Silas was doing everything by himself. Truth was that the flagellant wasn’t an apparently impossible task anymore, and with more time and more words exchanged between them he would be ready – and willing – to convert.

The brawler finally looked at Damian’s dark shape, feeling again that spark of possessiveness. And he answered Damian’s question, when the flagellant thought he wouldn’t:

“I’ve heard my fellow cultists talk about him… His looks, his weapons… I saw him once, but he was just… like everything else, a dark shape,” Silas shrugged. “As long as I manage to get close enough, I stand a chance to defeat him.”

Damian nodded, interested, and mentally thanked the Light, because the brawler had just revealed to him he seemed to be unable to fight at a distance from his opponent. Damian supposed weapons should be difficult for Silas to see and, therefore, he needed to be the closer he could to his opponent to use his claws and block the free space they had to wield their weapons. The flagellant narrowed his eyes slightly, because… if he stood with his whip behind his back, or close to his body, Silas wouldn’t see it… and if Damian attacked with enough speed and precision, maybe he would be able to land a fatal blow…

He then shook his head, dismissing the idea, remembering Silas had caught him exactly by his whip. This meant Silas had either heard it, or seen it. Most probably, the brawler had been able to do both, for it wasn’t a narrow weapon like an axe or sword and was significantly made of chains.

The flagellant sighed, annoyed, rested his head against the cold wall behind him and stretched his legs forwards until his feet touched the carpets around his preferred spot of cobblestone floor:

“You are too expressive for a blind man…” Damian grunted, and that made Silas laugh. It was loud and booming, yet at the same time cold as ice and cutting like the edge of a knife:

“I was taught,” Silas replied shortly, and something in his voice let the flagellant know it was a subject he wasn’t willing to talk about. But Silas had been making Damian uncomfortable for far too long, and the flagellant supposed now was his turn to play that game a little, make Silas feel uncomfortable instead. He tilted his head, feigning innocence, only to remember the brawler wouldn’t see it:

“But I thought no one knew…?” he asked softly, and couldn’t help a sly smile as Silas looked away abruptly:

“A friend knew,” Silas grunted in response, and Damian cocked an eyebrow:

“Knew?” So, that friend was now dead.

A sudden, brutal knock on the door had both men startled. Hissing a curse, Silas jumped to the floor and stumbled to the storage trunk, from where he picked up his cloth mask – as damp as his manskirt – and his skull mask, and covered his face as he made his way to the door.

Silas opened the heavy oak door and another brawler slipped in immediately, masked as well but carrying no weapons and matching Silas both in height and bulk. Silas frowned under his mask, confused:

“I thought my chambers were chilly and noisy!” he exclaimed, because the last thing he needed was another brawler in his chambers… with Damian in there.

The visitor seemed to read Silas’ mind, and he turned his masked head towards Damian, sitting against the wall and looking at both brawlers with a frown that got bigger:

“I heard you had a new toy, it got me curious…” the visiting brawler explained, his voice adenoidal. He crossed his hands behind his back and walked to Damian, who scrambled to his feet and clenched his jaw, refusing to having to look up to a cultist brawler. “Well well, what a toy! This one must be fun!”

“I’m converting him,” Silas grunted and in three steps he was standing right next to the visiting brawler.

The visiting brawler cackled, amused, as if Silas had told him a particularly funny joke. How could Silas properly convert someone, if he hadn’t learned to read, if he didn’t know the sacred texts and spells of his religion? The visiting brawler then reached forwards with the intent of grabbing Damian’s chin, but Silas stepped between his fellow brawler and the flagellant, pushing Damian and unbalancing him, making him fall on his backside with a loud huff and a chaotic rattling of chains:

“He is not to be disturbed,” Silas said, and his tone was sharp and decided. The visiting brawler seemed to consider his chances, until he shrugged and smiled a toothy grin; taking the risk of fighting Silas over an attractive body wasn’t worth it… not when he had Silas right there, at his disposal:

“I had forgotten how selfish you are… Anyway,” He placed both hands on Silas’ shoulders and squeezed them slightly. “I need a favour.”

Damian, shielded behind Silas, was at a loss of what to do, and so he simply remained fallen on the floor: he wanted but didn’t want Silas’ protection. On one hand, the flagellant was perfectly capable of defending himself against the visiting brawler, so Silas’ intervention had been unreasonable – not to mention the implications it carried to Silas himself, like punishment from his fellow cultists at his refusal to let one of them disturb the flagellant. On the other hand, Damian felt thankful about Silas stepping in between him and the visiting brawler, and it was oddly reassuring to find Silas seemed to be willing to deal with the consequences of defending the well-being of his prisoner.

Both brawlers left the chambers, not without the visiting brawler casting a last look at the flagellant, who felt all the dirtiness from the brawler’s look crawl on his skin. It was even more repulsive than Silas’ taunts and exhibitionism, and the moment both brawlers walked out the door Damian crawled the faster he could to the smaller chamber to wash himself, praying aloud and dutifully scratching himself once he had washed.

* * *

 

Silas slammed the door shut behind him. He noticed Damian was sitting on his usual spot, apparently undisturbed by the unexpected visitor:

“You should be sleeping, it’s late,” Silas stated. The complete darkness in the circular hall outside the heavy oak door meant it was night. He removed his mask and threw it to the bed, where it landed among pillows and bolsters.

Damian was about to point out the brawler hadn’t seem concerned about the late hour when he had slammed the door, but his eyes caught a strange pattern of circular bruises all over Silas’ arms and chest. The flagellant had never seen something like that, and when Silas walked past him, towards the smaller chamber, Damian could see the strange bruising extended to the back of the brawler’s shoulders.

It certainly had to be from the ‘favour’ requested by the other brawler, Damian thought in disgust. But it still puzzled him how such perfectly circular – and evenly spaced – bruises had gotten on Silas.

The brawler returned shortly after, dripping wet and naked, showing the same type of bruising all over his legs. He moved stiffly, and sighed loudly and happily as he lied flat on his stomach over the bed, among pillows and bolsters and blankets and furs.

Damian looked at his scratched arms, and tried to sound as much disinterested as he could:

“That bruising is strange,” he stated, studying the scratch-marks on his muscled arms. He heard Silas shift on the bed, and when he looked up the brawler had dragged himself to the end of the bed, still lying on his stomach and resting his cleft chin on his crossed arms. He appeared to be tired, and his unseeing grey eyes were oddly lost – like Silas wasn’t even making an effort to try to look at something specific.

Still, the brawler stretched his lips in a smile:

“You’ve been watching me, Damian?” he purred, immediately making Damian regret having asked:

“You are insufferable! I can’t talk to you without useless and tasteless statements and prevarications!!” the flagellant accused, pointing a threatening index finger at the brawler, who raised his head and propped his torso up just slightly:

“And you are petty and quarrelsome!”

“I do not want your flirtation!!”

“Careful, Damian!” Silas exclaimed, delighted with how easily he annoyed the flagellant. “One day you might have to take that back!”

Damian groaned in suffering and threw his head back. Silas chuckled and returned to his initial position, of resting his chin on his crossed arms.

The brawler liked this. That Damian would notice things on him, that Damian would… care, even if it wasn’t real care. A curiosity-driven kind of care, but it was care nonetheless. And that they bickered at each other, and that the bickering sounded emptier and emptier, devoid of purposeful meaning and simply a quick and exalted change of words from men who were just learning how to tiptoe around each other.

Silas grabbed a pillow and hugged it, resting his chin on it instead:

“It was probably the ascended cultist who joined us…” Silas said. “He has squishy limbs that suck on the skin and squeeze.”

Damian gaped in horror, though he wasn’t sure the source of it was the fact that Silas had “favoured” men and admitted it so openly, or the fact that a third person had been involved in an activity that by all moral norms was meant only for two, or the fact that said third person had… tentacles:

“You had intercourse with a monster,” the flagellant uttered in shock, and he lifted his eyes to the ceiling and raised his hands in praying. “The Light help me, you are-“

“He’s a cultist favoured by the gods! They have shared with him knowledge and power!” The brawler pushed himself up again and changed to a kneeling position. “He’s no monster, he’s what I aspire to be!”

Damian was speechless for a moment and looked again at Silas. For the time being, looking at a naked man carrying on his skin evidence of very deviant behaviour was the least of Damian’s concerns. No, the problem was the wickedness that had warped the brawler. How could a man wish to cease to be… a man? And the flagellant’s breath was caught in his throat as he realized he could hate the Darkness… but not Silas. The Darkness was the responsible for all evil and perversion…  and even though Silas - and men like him - were guilty of perpetuating the Darkness’ unholy deeds, how could Silas be hold responsible for his actions and pay for his sins if that twisted life was all he knew, if he had been stolen from civilization and left to grow in the dark?

Silas, the flagellant concluded with a crushing sense of pity that left no more room for hate, was not simply blind in his eyes. He was of mind and soul, and if he had been born blind in his eyes, he had been blinded in mind and soul and doomed to dwell in darkness forever – despite the small glimpses of light, that the man was not ill at all, like earlier that day when stepping up to protect the flagellant, or by letting him walk away unpunished for the recent attack.

“… Damian?” Silas’ voice interrupted the flagellant’s thoughts, and he blinked his eyes quickly, as if waking up suddenly. The brawler was still on the bed, naked, standing on his knees and with his head tilted to the side. He had that odd blank expression again, too strange for such an expressive blind man, like he didn’t know – hadn’t been taught – how to express what was going on with him.

The flagellant shook his head:

“Why would you want to be a monster instead of a man?” Damian asked quietly, his voice so even as it had never been in the brawler’s presence:

“I would still be a man!” Silas shook his head and sat down on the bed. “I’ve told you before, Damian: despite your holiness you are still a man… just like my ascended fellow, who is also still a man, but more god-like! He has all the needs a man has!”

“But the moment you give your humanity away, you are no longer a man! What makes your fellow a man? Certainly, not only his... needs!” Damian sighed in disbelief, already forgotten how stubborn Silas was. But again… since when is a blind man able to see? Silas opened his mouth to reply, but no sound came out. Once more, his face grew oddly blank, and Damian had the impression the brawler had never thought about that subject. He sighed, tired, and threw his hands in the air. “Silas, why do you aim to be an octopus?”

The brawler frowned, lied on his stomach again, reached for a bolster and rested his chin on top of it:

“What is an octopus?” he asked, genuine curiosity peeking from his croaky voice.

After brief seconds of incredulity, Damian burst out laughing. Unbelievable, Silas had made him laugh again. The flagellant sighed, recomposed himself and looked at the confused brawler, amusedly:

“It has a big head and many tentacles, it’s relatively small and lives underwater… The peoples by the sea catch it and eat it. I’ve seen it,” Damian explained patiently.

Silas frowned and rolled over his side, lazily:

“My fellow doesn’t have a big head and he’s taller than me… and he has many tentacles, as you call it, but he doesn’t live underwater and he certainly is not edible…” the brawler argued. Therefore, the ascended brawler could not be this octopus creature Damian had talked about.

Damian rolled his eyes and, slowly, lied on his side as well, but then rolled over so that Silas was left facing his back.

The brawler seemed to understand Damian was done talking, and he snaked under the blankets and furs on the bed and curled up, sighing in satisfaction at the slow warmth creeping all over him.

There was a moment of silence, until Damian glanced over his shoulder:

“Silas?” he called, and his answer was a questioning grunt. He bit his lower lip softly, considering, and ultimately decided that, since he had been raised with manners, he should put them at use. “Thank you. For defending me, earlier.”

From the bed, the brawler smiled widely and lifted his head a little, until he was able to see Damian’s vague shape:

“Not a problem.”

They would get there, Silas thought happily. Slowly and through a bumpy road, but the flagellant was starting to understand he could fully rely on Silas. And Silas knew that, with time, he could fully rely on the flagellant.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Opinions, anyone? Please?


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for the feedback! Your opinions mean a lot to me! :)

Damian slowly pushed himself up and yawned. He looked around, expecting to see the brawler up – Silas usually woke up before him. Yet he noticed the brawler was still nestled in the bed, under blankets and furs and surrounded by his many pillows and bolsters.

The flagellant rolled his eyes, as if Silas were a lost case. He stretched his arms and scratched his head, only to conclude his hair was no longer in a neat buzzcut. With a grimace, he ran both hands through his hair, experimenting how it would be like shaving his head with his wrists restrained.

Troublesome, Damian concluded. He didn’t have enough freedom of movement. He sighed, annoyed, and looked at Silas, sleeping in the bed. He doubted the brawler would remove his wrist shackles, but since he had been spared punishment for his latest attack, so perhaps Silas would cooperate.

Scrambling to his feet, Damian approached the bed and stopped next to it, looking at the brawler sleeping deeply in his comfortable cocoon. He frowned, feeling awkward, and cleared his throat:

“Silas,” he called. The brawler, however, was still asleep. Damian grimaced. “Silas.”

Still nothing. Damian looked around, seeking inspiration, and his eyes fell on one of the pillows littering Silas’ bed. An uncontrollable, smudge smile grew on the flagellant’s lips, and he carefully grabbed the pillow with both hands, bent slightly over the bed and hit Silas with the pillow.

The brawler startled and pushed his torso up, looking around and blinking his eyes quickly. An odd blank expression crossed his face for moments, like he didn’t know how to express the surprise of being so suddenly awoken. But then he finally distinguished Damian’s dark shape, and he raised his black eyebrows:

“Funny, are we?” he grunted, his croaky voice harsh from sleep. He motioned to lie down again, but Damian stretched his arms forwards:

“I want to shave my hair. Release my wrists,” he said.

Silas stopped mid-action, staring intently at the flagellant. Then he grinned and lied down:

“No,” The brawler made himself comfortable again. “I won’t repeat the same mistake of unshackling you.”

Damian groaned in dismay and tried to convince Silas:

“I have… behaved…” he grumbled, shaking his wrists. “You can shackle me afterwards, for all I care! I simply want to shave my hair!”

The brawler realized he would not be left in peace to sleep a little longer. With a tired sigh, he pushed himself up again and sat on the bed, his cocoon loosely wrapped around his waist.

For Damian to come to him and ask something, could only mean the flagellant was feeling more comfortable with his presence. Silas appreciated that, but he was determined not to give Damian another chance to attack him. He yawned and stretched his arms and back, which made the flagellant roll his eyes and look away from the brawler’s muscled body.

Silas crawled out of the bed and went to the smaller chamber, from where he returned shortly after, dressed:

“Come, I’ll shave your head, then we’ll eat,” the brawler announced as he made his way to his storage trunk.

Damian, however, widened his eyes in horror and didn’t move from next to the brawler’s bed. The perspective of having Silas touching his hair and head wasn’t bright… but this time Damian had to admit that what concerned him the most wasn’t Silas’ faith, but his disability:

“You can’t, you’re blind!” the flagellant argued quite logically and shook his head slowly. Silas, who had already picked up the shaving material from the trunk, turned his head at him and cocked an eyebrow:

“If I can shave myself, I can shave you,” Silas replied. “It’s your only chance, because I will not unshackle you.”

Damian kept shaking his head slowly, very certain that he would rather feel uncomfortable with longer hair than allow a blind man to shave him.

Silas tilted his head and decided to make the deal more appealing. Slowly, he walked into the smaller chamber, not glancing behind:

“I’ll give your hood and collar back…” he said. “… if you let me shave your hair.”

The flagellant narrowed his eyes, watching as Silas disappeared into the smaller chamber. He groped at his head again, feeling his blond hair, the strands much softer to the touch than his rough buzzcut. With a grunt, he concluded the brawler had a point: Silas always shaved his head and face impeccably, especially taking in consideration the large and protruding brand mark on the back of his head and his cleft chin. Besides… what did Damian have to fear? Cuts and nicks? Blood? Or simply the fact of willingly submit himself to Silas, let him touch his head?

But having his hood and collar back… be able to hide his face, regain his anonymity, was a highly alluring idea – no matter the person who took it away from him couldn’t see him at all.

Cursing under his breath and dragging his feet, Damian went to the smaller chamber.

Silas was standing by the water with his arms crossed, and he smiled widely upon seeing Damian’s dark and vague shape. He tilted his head towards the water, and Damian grudgingly kneeled by the waterside:

“Step back…” the flagellant grunted. He didn’t want the brawler that close to him while he was near the water, didn’t want to be pushed and drowned again – even if, deep down, he could tell the brawler wouldn’t do it.

Silas chuckled, but did as he was told, and Damian hurriedly cupped water into his palms and took it to his hair, damping it slightly in order to make it easier to shave. He then moved away from the waterside and, still on his knees, crossed his arms firmly in front of his chest:

“Hurry up…” he grunted, and took comfort in the promise that he would have his hood and collar back.

Delighted, Silas went to stand right in front of Damian. Holding the razor with a hand, he began to grope at Damian’s head with his free hand, feeling hair and scalp, the flagellant’s cranial structure and his ears. Kneeling with his back hunched in sulking resignation, Damian reached little bellow Silas’ hips, and the brawler didn’t even bother to hide the satisfied smirk of having the flagellant in such position.

Damian, too busy looking at the stone floor between him and the brim of Silas’ manskirt, didn’t notice. Chewing his tongue furiously, calling out all his will power to keep himself quiet and not push Silas away – by digging his fingers into his sides - Damian endured the exploring of his head for about five eternally long minutes. He felt Silas’ big warm hand all over his head, and his large fingers running through his hair and touching his ears. It was extremely unpleasant, not only for the touching itself, but specially because of the position he was in: it gave Damian a much hated sense of helplessness, of submission, and he eventually raised his head to look up at the brawler and growl at him to hurry up.

Silas’ hand slid towards his forehead and nose bridge as Damian moved his head upwards, and the flagellant let out a suffering sigh as Silas’ big hand was left covering the upper half of his face. Through the brawler’s spread fingers, Damian saw his supremely satisfied smirk:

“Hurry up!” Damian hissed angrily, and that earned him a chuckle and an unrequited caress at his face:

“Hasty, aren’t we? Do you want to lose an ear?” Silas teased, held Damian’s face by his chin and shook it softly:

“You said you wouldn’t touch me!!” Damian complained angrily, uncrossed his arms, grabbed Silas’ wrist and pulled his hand away.

But made no motion to attack Silas, and the brawler hummed in satisfaction. He placed his hand on top of Damian’s head again, feeling where he was going to shave. With an audibly pleased chuckle, Silas pushed Damian’s head down, to feel at the flagellant’s neck, and that earned him a hiss of obscenities not at all fitting for a holy man.

When the brawler was sure he already knew where to shave, he stepped even closer to Damian and forced the flagellant’s head against his thigh. Damian tried to resist and even placed both hands at the height of what he estimated to be Silas’ knees to push him away, yet the brawler had simply forced his own thigh against Damian’s forehead:

“Don’t move,” Silas warned seriously, and began to shave Damian’s hair. The flagellant closed his eyes and began to utter silent prayers, begging the Light to miraculously help Silas and end that as soon as possible.

However, the feeling of the razor against his scalp was painfully slow, and it followed right after the feeling of Silas’ fingers, holding his head, stretching his scalp, brushing shaved hair away. Damian didn’t mind the feeling of the razor, but the touch of the brawler’s fingers, both certain and gentle, was infuriating.

Damian didn’t like his head and face to be touched. Especially after the incident with a bottle. The skin on his face and head wasn’t scarred, and therefore retained a lot of sensitivity. The different sensations he was having from the razor and Silas’ fingers were highly confusing, disturbing. Especially the brawler’s touch, and Damian began to wonder what bothered him the most: if the fact that Silas was a cultist brawler, or simply the fact that Silas had a surprisingly gentle touch, or both.

Slowly, Damian’s head was shaved, and Silas moved the razor to the back of the flagellant’s skull after pushing down Damian’s head with a pleased chuckle.

Suddenly, the familiar feeling of skin tearing off, of stinging and of hot blood. The flagellant’s nape, unscarred, magnified the sensation and sent a shiver down Damian’s spine. All this right after a gentle brushing of fingers, followed by another, that hovered over the open cut and pressed it inquiringly.

Damian hissed, as the small and insignificant cut on the back of his neck increased in size and significance and changed from cut skin to a roaring flame that in less than a second exploded his heart, turned his blood to lava and made it churn and rush in one single direction.

“I’m sorry!” Silas announced abruptly, and all that was fire froze and shattered.

The flagellant looked up with wide eyes to see the brawler looking at a bloodstained finger he couldn’t see. There was barely blood on it, but it had been enough to alert Silas that he had made a small cut on Damian. Silas then looked again to Damian and shrugged apologetically:

“Your skin is very soft, there,” the brawler explained, unwilling to acknowledge his virtually inexistent sight was the reason why he had unknowingly changed the razor’s angle and made that small cut.

Damian just opened and closed his mouth softly, but no sound came out. His heart hammered madly in his chest, having just pieced back together after the explosion. His blood still felt inhumanly hot, and it slowly returned to its normal course of going everywhere.

The arousal, however, remained, and the flagellant shamefully pressed his head against Silas’ thigh again, so that the brawler would finish shaving him, and that the touching and that sheer position would remind Damian of how he hated all of that and take him back to normal.

Silas frowned when he felt the flagellant’s head pressed against him, and he carefully returned to the task at hand:

“Damian?” he called. “Are you upset?”

Damian’s mouth was dry and his tongue was swollen and heavy, unable to move. Still, he forced himself to open his mouth, move his lips, produce actual words:

“Just… unshackle me, the next time…” he grunted with a light shaking in his voice that would have gone unnoticed, had he not been talking to Silas, who relied primarily in his hearing to assess situations.

The brawler frowned, now shaving Damian’s nape with renewed care and attention:

“Is everything alright?” he asked, to which Damian grunted an affirmative answer that wasn’t convincing at all. Silas tilted his head, intrigued, but opted to pay attention to the task at hand and bring up the subject later.

When the brawler was finished, he stepped away from Damian and turned his attention to the shaving material:

“You can wash,” he told the flagellant, who immediately crawled to the water and frantically began to wash his head and shoulders.

Damian was vaguely aware of Silas’ presence. Everything felt slightly off; himself, the cold water, the dimness around him. His blood still felt too hot, his heart was still leaping around in his chest, indomitable. The insignificant cut still throbbed, claiming for itself attention and importance it did not deserve.

The flagellant couldn’t understand why he had had such a reaction, and it ashamed and enraged and scared him: it had been Silas’ fault again, just like when the brawler had first touched him. Yet this had been much more powerful, a cursed apparition where it should be none.

Silas left the smaller chamber, leaving Damian alone, kneeled by the water side, looking at himself reflected in the clear surface of the cold water. Slowly, he ran both hands through his recently shaved head, the chains of his wrist shackles barely making a sound as he moved so slowly and carefully. Twisting his arms and bending his neck uncomfortably, he managed to reach his nape and felt around for the insignificant yet persistent little cut, and he found it and pressed a finger on it viciously.

Nothing. No flames, no explosion, no blood rushing in one particular direction.

Damian cursed lowly, feeling colour drain away from his face, and his shoulders slumped as he was sure  _Silas_  was to blame. But  _how_  and  _why_ , the flagellant didn’t know.

 

* * *

 

The flagellant returned to the bigger chamber dripping wet, his soaked garments clinging to him uncomfortably. The cold water had extinguished the fire, and Damian had already forgotten about the promised return of his hood and collar – all he wanted was to curl on his favourite spot and beg the Light to take him out of that place, away from Silas.

He nearly jumped out of his skin when Silas grabbed him by the shoulder and spun him around, leaving him facing the brawler’s piercing yet unseeing grey eyes. In his other hand, the brawler was holding Damian’s hood and collar, and he handed them to the flagellant:

“You seem… disturbed,” Silas stated, curious as to what had abruptly put an end to Damian’s bad mood. The flagellant, however, hurriedly hid from the world in his hood and secured it in place with his heavy spiked iron collar:

“Don’t you have octopuses to favour?” the flagellant grunted and hurriedly walked away from the brawler, towards the patch of carpet-free floor. He sat heavily, pulled his legs up to his chest and leaned against the wall.

Silas frowned and went to sit on the bed, resting his elbows on his thighs:

“Are you upset because I successfully shaved you, despite your predictions?” the brawler asked triumphantly, hoping the little cut would be forgotten.

Damian rested his chin on top of his knees:

“Yes…” he grunted, hoping the brawler would drop the subject and never conclude what Damian did.

Silas beamed joy and fell back on the bed, stretching his arms to the side:

“We don’t like to lose, don’t we?” he teased, visibly pleased with having successfully shaved Damian’s hair. What a great appetiser for breakfast!

 

* * *

 

Later, when the brawler left, Damian gave yet another thought at the insignificant cut. It had bled, but it certainly hadn’t been purifying. No, it had been exactly the other way, and Damian couldn’t stand it. How could it be that  _everything_ , even blood, a precious offering, could be twisted? Silas’ words, about Damian being just a man, rang in his mind again.

Damian prayed and scratched his arms mercilessly, begging for forgiveness and trying to find peace of mind and comfort in the fact that, for the time being, Silas was unaware of what reactions he caused to him. The thought, together with the persistent scratching, helped Damian to calm down.

With throbbing and bleeding arms, he could savour the feeling of finally having his hood back, and enjoy the familiar weight of his collar. He felt clean, and his mind became blissfully blank.

Shortly after Damian felt thirsty, and he slowly stood up and made his way to the makeshift table. He found the heavy bronze hydria was almost empty, and decided he should fill it again. Damian picked it up, frowning at the weight of it, and made his way into the smaller chamber rather clumsily due to the shackles restraining him and the weight of the hydria.

By the waterside, Damian figured it would be a bad idea to simply kneel and fill the hydria with water; it was heavy, and restrained like that he wouldn’t manage to balance himself and would most likely fall face first in the water. Sighing, he put down the hydria, undressed, got in the water and picked up again the hydria to fill it.

Damian grimaced as the bronze hydria, now full of water, increased in weight significantly. Seemed he had made the right choice of getting in the water as well – but that he was also growing weak, and he couldn’t afford that: what if he needed to defend himself? He should exercise during Silas’ absence, gain back his strength, be ready for anything.

With a grunt, he put the hydria back on dry floor, washed quickly the drying blood from his scratched arms and placed both hands on the dry stone floor to haul himself out of the small pool of water. However… now that he was in the water, and since Silas wasn’t around… he could investigate the cracks in the walls through which the water came in and out of the pool of debris and empty stone sarcophagi.

Walking carefully, Damian made his way to the nearest crack, the one from where the water came through. It was underwater, however, and the flagellant hesitated for a moment, remembering all too well how it felt when Silas had almost made him drown. But now was not the time to be foolishly afraid: Silas wasn’t there, and Damian might discover something to help him escape. Filling his lungs with air, Damian bent down underwater, examining the wall.

There was a lonely crack in the wall, as large as Damian’s torso. Surely the larger stones had come from there. The flagellant slipped his head and hands through the crack, feeling how thick was the wall and if he had any chance at widening the crack, yet the stones were too thick, and there was only darkness and water behind that wall – it would be dangerous to widen the crack, and it would be dangerous to be in those chambers the day the wall gave away completely. More, there should be too much water on the other side of the wall, and even if Damian managed to escape through that crack he would most probably be unable to find a safe place to resurface.

The flagellant looked away from the crack in the wall and noticed, more or less near the place where he had left the hydria, broken stairs. Which meant the water pooled in a naturally lower bit of ground, that had been made lower by piling debris and empty sarcophagi around it. The smaller chamber was also at a slightly lower level than the sleeping chamber, and Damian wondered if the significance had been bigger when there wasn’t water in that chamber, and who and why had levelled the grounds to ease any significant differences in height.

Damian resurfaced and rubbed the water off his face. Taking in a deep breath, he walked to the other wall – roughly five steps away if his ankles weren’t restrained. On this wall, the crack crawled all the way up, but the larger part was underwater. However, this crack was as large as Damian’s arm, and the wall was still too compact for Damian to widen the crack.

There was only one way out of that place, and that way was the heavy oak door that obeyed only to Silas.

 

* * *

 

The brawler took a while to return, and when he did there was blood on him and his claws. Damian’s first thought was that he had encountered a group from the Hamlet, but the brawler strode to him and pointed a large slash on his forearm, all the while complaining about a swine folk that roamed the area and hated humans.

Damian was confused at both Silas’ rant and ridiculous attitude of coming right at him showing a wound. The brawler certainly didn’t expect Damian to tend to him again… did he?

“What?” Damian grumbled, interrupting Silas’ rant. The brawler, with his skull-mask still hiding his face, showed his wounded arm again, like the answer was right there. Damian shook his hooded head slowly. “No…”

“But you tended to my side!” Silas complained, visibly disappointed. Damian groaned in suffering and rubbed his face with his hands. “On your own free will!”

Silas had a point, but back then Damian had had questions to make. Now he had none, and he did not want any gratuitous interaction with the brawler.

 _Unless_...

“I will tend to you, if you remove my shackles. You choose which,” Damian gambled, priding himself for having gotten such a quick understanding on how the game worked. Silas, however, yanked the mask off his head like he had been irremediably offended and looked at Damian with one of his odd blank expressions, like he didn’t know what to do:

“No,” Silas replied, slightly confused. “No, you will tend to me and that’s it!”

“No,” Damian snickered and crossed his arms, enjoying how a small trifle was enough to upset the brawler:

“I will touch you!” Silas threatened, unable to understand why Damian refused to tend to his wound when he had already done it before. It also brought an odd feeling of hurt that had nothing to do with his injured arm.

The flagellant straightened his back, trying to look bigger:

“You are childish!” he accused. Silas threw his mask over his shoulder and it landed over the bed, He then pointed his claws at the flagellant:

“And you are mean!”

“You are incredibly petty!!”

“Give me a valid reason as to why you don’t want to tend to my injury,” Silas growled and stepped closer to the flagellant, reminding Damian he was taller and bulkier… and wasn’t restrained. Damian stood his grounds, unmoving, ignoring the urge to disappear against the wall just for the sake of avoiding any kind of contact with Silas. “I’m sure you wouldn’t refuse tending to those who abandoned you, yet you refuse to tend to  _me_ … and if you’re still alive and well, it is thanks to  _me_.”

The flagellant opened his mouth to reply, to tell Silas he didn’t want to tend to him because he was a cultist. But no words came out, and Damian simply stood there with his mouth open and a big frown, and gave Silas’ words a thought.

He wouldn’t think twice about helping any of the adventurers who had abandoned him to his luck. Because they shared his faith, even if many of them certainly didn’t practice.

Yet… they had  _left him_. Pushed him aside, like always, and Damian was so used to it he didn’t even see it. He was willing to help and save, even if it meant putting himself at risk.

The flagellant had to admit there was truth behind Silas’ words. Silas’ poisonous words, the same words he had been trying not to listen to since the very moment the brawler spoke them, stating an obvious reality even a blind man had seen. But that Damian couldn’t see anymore. He closed his mouth, slowly, and realized he had no valid reason to give Silas – none that the brawler would understand, and none that didn’t sound shallow and desperate to Damian’s ears.

Because if Damian couldn’t hate those who refused his help and mistreated him, and if he couldn’t hate Silas and his glimpses of kindness anymore and the brawler sought his assistance… then how could it be fair for any of them?

He sighed, defeated, and lowered his head:

“I… I have none…” he muttered. Silas hummed triumphantly.

 

* * *

 

“I thought creatures of Darkness didn’t attack… your kind,” Damian commented quietly as he finished bandaging the wound in Silas’ arm: it was deep, but not enough to need stitches, and the cut was fairly clean. This time they were sitting side by side on Silas’ bed, after the wound had been washed and disinfected in the smaller chamber.

The brawler was looking ahead, his eyes oddly lost while not making the effort of trying to distinguish the many shapes in the chamber:

“Some are… too wild. Need taming, like the swine folk. They are a product of the gods, not of a cultist’s magic; hence, they are more powerful and unlikely to obey,” Silas explained and turned his head to look at Damian. His eyes, however, were looking more past the flagellant, rather than at the flagellant’s shape.

Damian interpreted it as Silas being significantly tired. Not exactly physically, but perhaps the effort of seeing the little he could drained his energy out of him, especially if he was exposed to too much stimuli… like the encounter with this swine folk he talked about. Damian recalled seeing that same resigned lost face on the brawler after he had “favoured” another brawler and an ascended cultist, and maybe it had been the same kind of effort to keep up with what was going on. That could explain why Damian had woken up before Silas.

“Doesn’t the Light have wild creatures, too?” the brawler asked suddenly, interrupting Damian’s thoughts. The flagellant crossed his arms and Silas groped carefully at his bandaged forearm:

“Yes, but… the creatures aren’t eager man-eaters… They usually live away from people, but accidents do happen, sadly…” The flagellant shrugged and smiled softly. “A pack of wolves followed me, once. When I was travelling the north. They didn’t come close and didn’t attack me. They simply… followed me for a while. And then they left. The wolves were... magnificent.”

The brawler didn’t know what was a wolf pack, and Damian patiently explained it to him, plus what were bears and wild boars. Silas was fascinated at how simple the Light’s creatures were, with no remarkably huge fangs and claws, or no large number of limbs, or no monstrous size. He concluded those wild beasts Damian had talked about couldn’t be that terrible – if the wolves hadn’t attacked him, they couldn’t be feral at all:

“… or, perhaps…” Silas grinned teasingly, looking in the general direction of the flagellant. “… you taste too bitter and foul.”

Damian’s reply was a hopeless sigh. Still grinning, Silas jumped to his feet and walked to the makeshift table to get himself a cup of water. The moment he held the bronze hydria, Damian stood up as well and stumbled to him, the chains of his restraints rattling furiously:

“Are you stupid? I have stopped the bleeding and bandaged your wound and you’re going to lift that??”

Silas, however, managed to lift the full hydria with his healthy arm and pour water into a cup. The flagellant clenched his jaw, unsure of how to interpret the unrequited demonstration of strength, and opted to mentally chastise himself for having had to hold on the two horizontal handles to carry and fill it, instead of doing like Silas, simply holding on the vertical handle between the two horizontals.

“You filled it,” Silas stated softly. “You didn’t have to, I could do it.”

“Careful not to choke…” Damian snarled in reply, because filling a vessel meant nothing other than water was needed.

 

* * *

 

This time, the brawler didn’t hide from the world for recovery, and Damian felt grateful for not having to spend that much time locked up with Silas. Yet the brawler was determined again to attempt to convert Damian, and for some days a large percentage of their interactions was all about Silas trying to convince the flagellant to change faith, that he would be respected and valued. Damian pretended not to listen and argued in favor of the Light as a reply, but there was already a small breach in his walls – he sometimes would think about what Silas had asked, and what he had concluded, the day the brawler had asked him to tend to his arm.

Silas eventually took a break from his failed attempt at conversion, imagining Damian just needed more time and more trust between them.

 

* * *

Damian was already asleep when Silas returned, slamming the door shut behind him. That made the flagellant groan and open one eye lazily, only to suddenly push himself up to a sitting position as Silas strode to him holding something in his outstretched hands. The brawler had strapped his claws to his stomach piece, and he kneeled in front of Damian – almost colliding with the flagellant, in his haste. He had a large, radiant smile, that together with his skull mask gave him an eerily dangerous look:

“Behold my dragon!” he announced proudly, practically shoving a small snake against Damian’s face.

The flagellant widened his eyes and clumsily scrambled away, putting some distance between him, Silas and the small snake nestled on the brawler’s big hands. He grimaced in disgust and pointed a threatening index finger at the snake:

“It’s a snake! What are you doing with a snake??” he shrieked, recalling Silas’ tales about the swine folk, and what if that snake was also a product of Darkness? What kind of monster had that ridiculous brawler brought into his chambers??

Silas pursed his lips and brought the small snake close to his chest, like Damian’s words could harm it:

“It’s a dragon! Snakes make a rattling sound and they hiss!” Silas explained, like the flagellant was particularly dumb. He then raised the snake above his head, smiling. “Dragons are the keepers of knowledge!”

“No, dragons are giant and they spit fire and maim innocents! And they steal gold and stash it in a cave!”

“No, dragons can be both small and giant, it depends on the species!”

Damian hid his face on his hands out of pure frustration. First he had lectured a brawler about saints, and now was about to discuss  _dragons_  with the very same brawler. How could have his life come to this? For whose - and what - sins was he paying for? Silas went on and on about the several species of dragons, that he and all cultists had learned as children from their ascended mentors, and how dragons were to be praised and respected because they possessed ancient knowledge – and would share it with whoever they found fit. Silas bragged about how he had been chosen to be the guardian of that dragon and learn ancient knowledge from it, since that same dragon had descended from a tree and onto his shoulder when he was patrolling alone outside.

The flagellant uncovered his face with a sigh:

“Snakes don’t climb trees…” he grunted. Snakes creeped through the dirt, the disgusting little things:

“She’s a dragon! Dragons make their nests in high places! And there is nothing higher than a tree!” Silas exclaimed triumphantly, because that “dragon” had definitely seen something worthy on him. Or perhaps it was a sign of the gods! Maybe they had finally noticed him, and had sent a dragon to reward him for his efforts. Either way, now Silas had a dragon, and in time the dragon would share knowledge and power and Silas would ascend closer to his gods – and take Damian with him.

Damian rolled his eyes and considered telling the brawler about mountains and cathedrals and castles – there were so many things higher than trees… Instead, he sighed again, leaned against the wall and crossed his arms:

“She,” he repeated in a flat tone, and Silas nodded. “And… what do you plan to do with the snake? Torture it until it reveals its knowledge?”

Silas gaped in horror, clutching the small snake to his chest. Damian presumed the poor unfortunate reptile should be terrified and too shocked to move:

“I will befriend her!” Silas announced, and Damian groaned in suffering, and for a moment felt ashamed for having considered Silas someone remotely similar to a worthy opponent. “And I shall name her…” The brawler raised the small snake above his head and looked up. “… Fluffy.”

And Damian burst out laughing, and everything was so ridiculous he must be dreaming.

Silas paid him no attention and stood up. He left his dragon on the bed, then trotted to the trunk to store his claws, stomach piece and mask and returned to the bed. The dragon’s narrow shape was hard to see, so Silas had to grope for it until his fingers brushed something scaly. He picked up his dragon, crossed his legs and nested it on the stretched manskirt between his knees. He ran a finger along the dragon’s body, nearly as long as the brawler’s forearm, and smiled innocently, delighted with the fact that  _he had been chosen by a dragon_ , and that said dragon felt different from everything he had ever touched.

Silas almost didn’t notice Damian patiently rubbing a fur on his shoulder:

“This is fluffy,” he explained and discarded the fur, wondering why he had even tried. He could almost guess the brawler’s answer:

“I like how it sounds…” Silas grunted annoyedly, because he knew Fluffy wasn’t really fluffy, but he cherished the experiences he associated with the feeling of fluffy: times of feeling comfortable and warm, and of feeling safe. He would befriend the dragon, and she would trust him and bring him the same joy her name brought… and would give him knowledge.

The flagellant rolled his eyes and went back to his preferred spot of floor. He sat with his back against the wall and tilted his head:

“How do you know it’s female?” he asked out of curiosity, and smirked as Silas puffed his chest proudly:

“Her head feels delicate,” And to prove his point, Silas touched the snake’s round and flat head with an elongated muzzle. Damian decided not to argue about it:

“And… what will you feed it? Dried fruits? Wild berries?” Silas didn’t know how to answer that and his heart sank a little. He looked down at the small snake, trying to see it, and the flagellant chuckled at his blank distressed face. He yawned and lied on the floor again. “Rats, Silas… Snakes eat rats.”

“She’s a dragon!” the brawler complained, and the flagellant shrugged:

“Didn’t you know that snakes and dragons are reptiles, and that reptiles feed on rats and mice?” And hens, and humans, and Damian frowned worriedly. “Snakes bite and might be poisonous.”

“She’s a dragon! Dragons aren’t poisonous! And if she bites you, that’s your own fault,” the brawler declared and maybe the flagellant was right about dragons eating rats and mice. Dragons were carnivores, and mice and rats were a good source of flesh. “And she doesn’t even spit fire, only winged dragons do.”

He picked up Fluffy again, raising his hands at the level of his eyes, trying to distinguish his dragon’s shape from his own fingers. Damian crossed his arms and made himself comfortable on the cobblestones:

“You can’t even see it: you’ll probably step on it or smash it…” the flagellant said.

Silas clenched his jaw and turned his head sharply at the flagellant. There was enough light in the chambers for Damian to understand, from his spot on the floor, that Silas wasn’t pleased with the comment. Usually annoying the brawler was a petty reward, the best replacement now that Damian wouldn’t attack Silas to kill him.

But now that he thought of it, his words, though simple, had been… incredibly cruel. And he pitied the brawler, who would never be able to see how his new pet looked like – and who would probably end up unintentionally smashing it…

The flagellant sighed and shifted slightly to lie on his back:

“You should build it a lair… like when you removed your carpets for me…” he said quietly. Maybe the snake would remain hidden and safely away from the blind brawler, and maybe being hidden would keep it from stressing and eventually attacking one of them.

Silas’ face softened and he slouched his shoulders gradually, relaxing. He looked again at the small snake in his hands, and maybe Damian was right, maybe his dragon would like to have a little lair of her own – like Silas had his bed and Damian his… cobblestones.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Opinions, anyone? Please?


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you everyone for leaving feedback. <3 It really fuels my writing.

Silas didn’t sleep at all, the excitement of having been chosen by a dragon – with the intervention of his gods or not – keeping him in a state of light sleep all night. The fact that his dragon had a very interesting texture didn’t help him to quiet down either, as he spent hours and hours cradling Fluffy against his chest and petting its small scaly body.

The brawler planned on leaving early to get his dragon some food – preferably, leaving and returning before Damian woke up. The flagellant had been well-behaved, but Silas would rather not give him a chance to harm him again, this time through the dragon. To prevent that, the brawler decided that hiding Fluffy was an excellent idea: he would hide it in his bed, where it would be comfortable and safe under a blanket, especially because Silas knew for sure Damian wouldn’t dare approach the bed.

That, of course, would change later, the brawler thought with a grin.

Yet Silas lost a considerable amount of time looking for Fluffy, that, when the brawler left to wash himself, decided to hide by itself. When Silas finally found his dragon curling between two pillows and hid it under a blanket, he heard the chains of Damian’s shackles rattle softly as the flagellant pushed himself up.

Damian saw Silas pulling a blanket over the snake. Rolling his eyes and deciding not to comment, he went to the smaller chamber to wash. When he returned to the bigger chamber, he found the brawler swallowing down a handful of dried fruits, and presumed Silas was in a hurry. The perspective of being left alone, at peace to pray and dutifully scratch himself, made the flagellant sigh in satisfaction.

He approached the makeshift table, stood at a certain distance from the brawler and collected breakfast.

“I shall bring provisions for Fluffy, don’t you dare bother her,” Silas announced as he put on his mask. Damian, sitting on the floor to eat a breakfast of cheese and wild-berries, rolled his eyes.

Clearly, Silas knew nothing about reptiles. Damian, on the other hand, knew: being brought up in a small farming village, it was common to hear complains about snakes raiding chicken coops; their attacks were sporadic and unexpected, which meant they weren’t always eating. Still, the common snakes that had plagued the chicken coops and that had, in one occasion or two, crossed paths with Damian and his friends while they played in the barns, were different from the brawler’s newest finding – the common snakes had always been in shades of brown, and had been much smaller and thinner. They were all reptiles, though… and Damian supposed what applied to common snakes should apply to the ‘dragon’ as well.

“Snakes aren’t always eating… and they like to hide. You should find it a lair, first…” Damian opined. He didn’t like snakes and he didn’t like Silas, but he could only imagine that, in the event of something bad happening to the snake, the brawler would certainly blame him.

And probably touch him, and Damian didn’t want it.

Silas stopped mid-action of strapping his stomach-piece in place, and tilted his head:

“Dragon,” he corrected. The flagellant sighed, summoning patience:

“ _Reptile_. All reptiles are the same,” Or so he hoped.

The brawler simply stared at him, considering. Despite being revered creatures, a cultists’ knowledge about dragons was limited – especially that of a humble brawler like Silas, and he couldn’t let anyone know he had been chosen by a dragon. But dragons were creatures from the outside, and Damian too was from the outside and knew things the brawler didn’t. Silas recalled their conversation about dragons, the previous night, and concluded the Church of Light didn’t held them in such high esteem like his faith did. That didn’t mean, however, that men like Damian didn’t know a thing or two about dragons.

And the flagellant, though very insistent in calling Fluffy a snake, seemed to know about reptiles. Dragons were reptiles – they were scaly, had a forked tongue and hatched from eggs.

“Do you think she will feel more at ease to eat?” the brawler asked reluctantly. Damian nodded:

“It will like to hide,” he assured. His friends and he had often found snakes hiding in empty rabbit holes or under large tree roots. Back then they would run back to the village in excited cacophony, bragging about finding where the chick-eaters were hiding and feeling very adult and responsible. Now that Damian looked back at it, he thought that probably the snakes had feared the noisy gang of children and had hid in an attempt at being left in peace.

Silas thought that, if Fluffy had her own lair as soon as possible, she would be safer as well, not only to eat but to rest. He nodded, his eyes fixed on Damian’s dark shape:

“She,” he corrected. “I’ll be gone for a while, do not disturb Fluffy.”

Damian grunted that he had no wish to mess around with the snake. Hopefully, Fluffy would remain hidden on the brawler’s bed.

* * *

 

The flagellant entertained himself exercising a bit, walking back and forth and swinging his arms the best he could to mimic the movements he would do with his whip – of course, restrained, it wasn’t very effective. Damian then discovered a large stone in the smaller chamber that was just perfect to lift, and for a while he was happy lifting the stone.

By the time he was done, his muscles ached like something was ripping them apart. Before his capture, Damian’s body would not have complained like that.

The pain was satisficing, though. The flagellant was finally going back to the right path, and with a pleased smile he left the smaller chamber.

Damian’s first instinct when stepping in the bigger chamber was to look at Silas’ bed. From the passage between chambers, he couldn’t distinguish the brawler’s snake from all the pillows and bolsters and furs and blankets littering the bed… and that made the flagellant feel oddly reluctant about going into the bigger chamber.

What if the snake had left the bed? What if it was starving? What if it attacked him? What if it was indeed poisonous? What if it evolved into an unnamable eldritch horror?

The flagellant then cursed himself for his childish apprehension. It was simply a snake, and the creature had looked frozen in fear as the brawler handled it the day before. Damian made his way to the makeshift table to pour himself a cup of water. He glanced quickly over his shoulder, to the bed, then drank his water and went to sit on his carpet-free patch of floor. He closed his eyes and smirked, savoring the pain of exercised muscles. Then opened one eye, slightly, to look at the bed.

Hours gone by, with Damian unable to rest properly as he kept glancing at the bed, trying to figure where the snake was. He couldn’t see it, and he hoped it hadn’t creeped away while he was in the smaller chamber – because then he would have to look for it, because Silas couldn’t… The flagellant then stopped his train of thought, frowning in disbelief at the direction his thoughts had taken. He wanted to stay on the brawler’s good side, be unshackled again, remain untouched, escape… but his sudden – and resigned – willingness to help Silas in case his snake went missing was somewhat… daunting.

Damian began to scratch his arms and begged the Light for guidance.

* * *

 

The brawler returned when Damian was eating what was supposed to be dinner. He was carrying two wooden crates on his arms, and on top of it there was a highly ornate brass candle lantern.

Silas crouched to leave the crates on the carpeted floor, right next to Damian’s favorite spot, and handed him the candle lantern:

“I’m going to build a lair for Fluffy!” Silas announced proudly, removing his mask. He went to store it, along with his stomach-piece, then returned to the crates. There was a little, excited smirk on his lips, and Damian interpreted it as a bad omen:

“Where, exactly, are you going to build the lair…?” he asked in a sigh. As an answer, Silas simply took the top crate and placed it lined and parallel to the other, but with a generous space between them. The brawler then strode to the bed, from where he brought a blanket, and gracefully threw it over the crates.

The blanket wasn’t quite covering one of the crates, and Damian patiently straightened it. The front of the lair was half exposed, while the back was completely blocked by the rest of the blanket.

“Where did you learn that?” the flagellant asked. He doubted a blind man could come up with such a thing. Damian had made that type of construction as well, when he was a child, and his group of friends and he believed to be knights in a straw bale castle. Silas shrugged:

“I was taught that a piece of cloth stretched between two bases provides shelter,” the brawler replied proudly. “Clever, aren’t we?”

Damian supposed it had been Silas’ deceased friend, and he felt an unrequited spark of curiosity. His curiosity lasted little, ceasing the moment Silas took the candle lantern from him and cupped his hands around it. The flagellant thought the brawler would want to open the lantern, remove the candle and light it with the aid of one of the many candles nestled in the several niches in the wall – which would be a terrible idea, and Damian was already halfway to stand up and snatch the candle from Silas before something dangerous happened.

However… there was a faint flick of light between Silas’ fingers around the candle lantern, and when the brawler moved a hand to hold the lantern by the top, Damian saw, much to his surprise, that the candle was lit. The small flame, however, was of a pale blue, the most unnatural thing the flagellant had ever seen.

Silas cast him an extremely proud grin:

“I know some basics…” he explained, his croaky voice coated with smugness. Damian would have lectured him about sorcery and black magic, but he was oddly fascinated by the small flame, so fragile and ill-looking, and he carefully stretched both hands to the lantern and touched the glass with his fingertips.

The glass was warming up, slowly.

Silas presumed the speechless flagellant should be impressed. That only made him puff out his chest, and he handed the lantern to Damian:

“Put it inside the lair,” he said.

Reluctant at first, Damian did as he was told. In the meantime, Silas went to the bed, and after groping for a short while finally found his snake, still under a blanket. He held the snake carefully in his hands and walked back to where Damian was kneeling, and crouched next to the flagellant.

Silas looked down at the weird dark shape on his hands, his small dragon than one day would share with him ancient knowledge:

“What color is she, Damian?” he asked softly, and turned his head to look at the flagellant. The flagellant’s head, now covered with the hood and surrounded by the spikes of his collar, had lost the familiar shape Silas had grown used to, and he narrowed his eyes slightly, trying to see Damian’s face in the dark blur.

The flagellant frowned, confused by the unexpected question. But of course, Silas wouldn’t just be content to have a ‘dragon’, no; he had to know everything about it, just like when he had groped Damian’s face and inquired him about his hair and eye color.

Again, that pitying feeling towards the brawler, and Damian reluctantly and very lightly pressed a finger on Silas’ forearm:

“There are… these patterns in white, which is light…” He traced a few of the snake’s light spots on the brawler’s forearm, and felt his cheeks heating uncomfortably. He must be angry and frustrated, because he did not want any contact with the brawler. And yet there he was, unable to deny him to see how his pet-snake looked like. “And… some black spots in the white, which is dark… And… the rest of its body is black… and there are two white strips across its eyes… And it has blue eyes…”

Damian immediately withdrew his hand and wiped his finger on his garments, though once the snake was finally in its lair he would simply stumble into the smaller chamber to wash.

Silas was silent and his face went blank. Damian had touched him. Free-willing.

For a moment, the brawler forgot about the dragon in his hands and about the embarrassed flagellant looking away from him. It almost felt like the Heart of Darkness itself had summoned Silas to his presence and was now talking to him, reasoning with him, convincing him that, with all the interest the flagellant was showing – his fascination with Silas’ ability to create a flame (that was not even remotely remarkable among the cult) and now… touching the brawler, showing him the dragon’s skin on his own with gentleness - could only mean good things for Silas.

Silas clenched his jaw and, carefully, left Fluffy inside the lair. The snake looked around for a moment, flicking its tongue, inspecting the wooden walls and the soft ceiling and floor of its new hiding place. The candle lantern was a satisficing source of heat, and the light was comfortably weak, so the snake slowly curled near the lantern.

Damian mustered enough courage to peek at the snake. It seemed pleased with its lair, and Damian took it as his cue to go wash himself immediately:

“The snake likes it,” he grunted as he scrambled to his feet and stumbled away the faster he could, the chains of his ankle shackles rattling furiously as he moved.

The brawler smiled, pleased, but his concerns had drifted from his dragon to Damian. He would convert the flagellant now, and make him his own, and favor only him, and Damian’s rookie and fanatical interpretation of faith and Fluffy’s ancient knowledge would make him rise through the ranks – and the flagellant would rise with him.

* * *

 

Damian had just finished rinsing his hands vigorously when Silas appeared on the entryway to the smaller chamber. Not wanting to stand near the water with the brawler there – and definitely not wanting to see the brawler bathing – Damian stood up and intended to leave.

Yet, when he walked past the brawler, Silas pinned him against the wall, trapping him with his weight and size. Damian huffed as his back hit the cold stone wall behind him and Silas pressed his body against him. The flagellant felt breathless, caged between Silas’ arms, and the burning hot from the brawler’s body made him cower.

Or try to, because Silas’ arms didn’t let him move.

Damian froze, fighting back the urge of headbutting Silas, push him away and run:

“What are you doing??” he hissed. Silas raised a hand, hit it against a spike of the collar before finding Damian’s hood, then pulled it down. “Put it back!”

“Stop fighting, Damian…” Silas purred, his croaky voice so seductive the flagellant felt color drain from his face. He hadn’t heard that tone in a while, and would like to never hear it again. “Convert, be mine, ascend.”

“No!!” Damian tried to wriggle away, but Silas just put more weight on him, so tall and broad the flagellant began to feel claustrophobic. The brawler had a smirk, and he bowed his head and bumped his forehead on Damian’s with a bit more strength than necessary – the flagellant’s head had been closer than expected:

“Stop pretending…” the brawler purred, nuzzling on Damian. The flagellant widened his eyes in horror and tried to shrink against the wall, only to have more of Silas’ body and weight pressed against him. The brawler held his chin between his thumb and index finger, and with his other hand held Damian’s arm. He felt the scratched skin, and thumbed disapproving circles on the irritated and reddened skin. “Stubborn, aren’t we?”

The feeling of Silas’ thumb rubbing scratched skin was… shamefully pleasant, giving Damian shivers and goosebumps. It felt almost as good as when Damian kept scratching the irritated skin, but instead of the harshness of fingernails, it was the softness and warmth of finger pads – and the novelty of such feeling.

“Your interest in me speaks up for you…” Silas purred again and nuzzled down Damian’s face, searching for his jawline with the tip of his nose. “Even a blind man can see it!” He chuckled at his own joke. “We’ve been wanting this for a while, haven’t we?”

Damian felt Silas’ sharp canine teeth scratching softly at the skin of his jawline, the brawler’s hot breath on his cold skin. For a fraction of moment, he wondered what would it feel like, if Silas continued like that and then scratched with a bit more strength, just enough to draw blood and leave a scar. And if he went from rubbing soothing circles to claw at him with those big hands. Not that the brawler needed to be rough to give Damian sensations – the feeling of feather-like touches on his leg was still vivid in the flagellant’s memory, and the careful pressure on the small cut on the back of his neck, and now the soft scratching of teeth on his jawline: yet Damian felt curious as to how he would feel, if Silas were rough. And what would the brawler’s skin feel like? Would his face feel as bumpy as it looked, with all those acne scars? Would there be palpable scars on his muscled arms? Would the skin of his head, so neatly shaved, be as smooth as it looked? And the protruding scar on the back of his head, the upper skull with an aureole, how would it feel to the touch?

Sinful, forbidden thoughts. In a panic, Damian managed to wriggle just enough to create a bit of space between him and Silas and launched his shackled fists forwards, blindly, ignoring the complain of his sore muscles. Silas huffed a pained breath as he was punched right below his sternum and stepped back, coughing. Damian’s blow hadn’t been powerful enough to leave him breathless, but it was unpleasing nonetheless.

They stared at each other in shocked silence. The flagellant opened his mouth, but the words he wanted to say refused to come out. What had he to say, anyway? He was terrified of Silas, of how the brawler was slowly and so effortlessly corrupting him, while at the same time all that new kind of attention towards his person was enrapturing. Yet the dread from divine punishment was stronger than his curiosity, and he finally mustered enough courage to speak:

“I have no interest in you…!” Damian snarled with a hoarse voice, though the little time he spared to think about _what would be like_ turned what he meant into hollow words. Fear spurred him to leave to perfectly clear that he had no interest in Silas – at least, clear for him, because how could he allow such thoughts about another man from the wrong faith? “I… I simply pity you!”

The brawler cast him one of his odd blank expressions and straightened his back.

Pity was a diminishing feeling, the last thing Silas wanted to hear. What was there to pity about him? Wasn’t he strong and healthy and capable? Wasn’t he desirable? How could an entire cult of women and men find Silas worthy enough and a single man fail to see it?

If there was someone to pity, that would be the flagellant, broken by his own faith and refusing to be fixed. But Silas respected and wanted Damian for his physical power, for his raw strength – and had grown to respect the flagellant for his kindness to be thoughtful about his sight, and for sharing small slices of his world with him. He did his best not to pity Damian, because the flagellant, being the match Silas wanted so badly, shouldn’t be devalued.

The flagellant, however, didn’t seem to be on the same page as Silas. Again. Even after tending to his wounds, and allowing Silas to shave him, and be so fascinated by Silas’ skills and even showing him the patterns of Fluffy’s scales.

How could Damian push him _away_ like that? What was the brawler missing to succeed? What was wrong with him that everyone but Damian failed to see? And why wouldn’t Damian tell him what was wrong? Why wouldn’t the flagellant _talk_ to him? Silas couldn’t _see_ him, he had to guess, take leaps of faith… and he was constantly failing, never landing on the safety across the precipice.

Why was Damian constantly rejecting him, when a dragon had chosen him?

Silas clenched his jaw, furious. Something broke in him, either pride or confidence, and it hurt, a pain too similar to Silas’ biggest loss, few years ago. The brawler’s first thought was grabbing Damian by the collar and drag him to the water. And touch him, humiliate him, hurt him like the flagellant had done to him.

Silas immediately grabbed the flagellant’s arms in an iron grip, fingers digging into muscle with bruising strength, and trapped him between the wall and his body again.

But that would lead to nothing, would it? Damian was already broken by his own faith, and the pieces were too scattered to be further damaged. Silas felt helpless: anything he did would ruin the little – and apparently meaningless – whatever that had grown between him and the flagellant, yet if he did nothing Damian would evade his authority.

Maybe he should have punished Damian for his last shenanigan…

Silas’ hands slid down Damian’s arms and took hold of his shackled fists. Slowly, Silas covered the flagellant’s fingers with his hands: he would come up with something later, but for now… hurting and incapacitating Damian would be enough:

“For a humble holy man, you are very aggressive,” the brawler grunted and balled his hands, forcing Damian’s fingers into bending further and further.

The flagellant frowned and tried to release his hands, but his muscles were sore and refused to move with the vigor Damian demanded from them. He knew what Silas was doing – it was a technique the Church used too, to get confessions from heretics. But instead of bending, the inquisitors would stretch until the finger joints were loose enough to be pushed out of place. He shut his eyes closed when the pressure on his joints became too much and clenched his jaw.

There was a snap, and another, and another. Damian swallowed down a whimper: pain that didn’t come from bleeding wounds was incredibly uncomfortable to him, bordering a slight level of unbearableness. But this was how captivity was supposed to be, right? Torture and pain, instead of whatever it was Silas and he had been doing. This was what Damian, as a flagellant, aimed to do: to suffer for the Light, for the redemption of thousands of souls and the purification of his own.

But his walls had been breached, and as his fingers were gradually snapped out of place, Damian asked himself why he was putting himself through that – for the drunkard who had broken a bottle on his face, for the crowds that had yelled insults at him, for the people who had eyed him with despise and disgust and mockery, for the youths who had thrown stones at him, for the villagers who had denied him shelter and food, for the religious peers who had hypocritically aided him? Was it worth it? Was it worth to walk alone in the dark in a place where the light didn’t reach?

He gasped in pain and opened his eyes again when he felt Silas withdraw his hands and put distance between them. The brawler still carried one of his odd blank expressions, and looking at his piercing grey eyes, Damian experienced again the terrifying feeling of having his soul bared and explored:

“There. I want to see you punch me again,” Silas snarled and walked away, into the bigger chamber.

Damian stood still, his back pressed against the wall as he looked down at his hands. His fingers were crooked and starting to swell. The pain was absurdly intense, and he hunched his back and crossed his hands over his chest, in the hopes that making himself smaller would make it hurt less.

There he was, back to stage zero once again: still shackled, hurt and with Silas pushed away. Grunting in pain as he slid down to the floor, he wanted to blame the brawler, feel repulsed by the sudden and unwanted attention – they had a deal after all, didn’t they? Damian had done nothing to deserve all that inappropriate touching, so this was entirely Silas’ fault. However, he realized the slight repulsion that started to dawn on him was aimed at his own thoughts, and not at the brawler.

The flagellant looked up to the ceiling; the smaller chamber, lit only by a torch, was too dark for Damian to actually see the ceiling, and he could only imagine how high it could be, as above him hovered only darkness and shadows.

Could the Light break through it to guide him, to show him how was he supposed to understand the brawler and play along, buy himself time to escape? Could the Light forgive him?

Damian wanted to be angry, but he didn’t know what he should be angry at: the touching, his own thoughts, Silas not staying true to his word, his dislocated fingers. All of that was enough to fill him with wrath and give him strength and little judgement to attack the brawler, and yet all he did was staying there, curled on the floor and staring up at the darkness, clenching his jaw in bitterness.

Silas might not be a bad man, but he wasn’t different from the souls materialized as scars in Damian’s back.

And Damian might be just a man, with mundane needs and impious thoughts like every other man.

* * *

 

The flagellant couldn’t tell for how long he was there, unable to think about anything else besides the throbbing pain coming from his dislocated fingers. Four times, he heard the heavy oak door opening and closing in the bigger chamber, but Silas didn’t come to see him and Damian had no wish of going to the bigger chamber. Even when he began to shiver with cold.

Maybe this time Silas would drown him. How many denials could the brawler withstand? Maybe this time the Light would take him, despite the dangerous thoughts of how could it have felt. Damian had acted, after all – had pushed the sin away, and as a result now couldn’t bleed to purify himself.

Damian tried to move his hands a bit, only to regret it deeply and howl lowly in pain. How ironic that the treatment for heretics had be applied to him…

His muscles were still sore, and his throat began to feel dry and harsh. Only when his stomach complained about the lack of food did the flagellant find the spark for anger – he had grown weak, had allowed an enemy to pamper him and now must suffer the consequences. If he couldn’t bleed, then he would punish his weak self like that, by staying curled instead of crawling to the waterside and drink, by staying in the smaller chamber instead of tumbling into the bigger chamber and try to eat some dried fruits and be a little warmer.

* * *

 

Damian opened his eyes with a grunt, feeling groggy. He was cold, and his hands still hurt, and so did his whole body for being cramped like that on the stone floor. He heard steps, of booted feet approaching him and stopping next to him.

He looked up, to see Silas look down at him. The brawler was wearing the skull mask, glittering ominously in the dark as the light from the lonely torch reflected on it, casting Silas’ face and body in dancing shadows. But there were other things on the brawler that glittered, besides the mask: his stomach piece, a large chest piece that hadn’t been there before and an ornate dagger hanging from the brawler’s waist.

Damian’s eyes took longer to observe the dagger than anything else: the hilt and handguard were encrusted with small jewels, and the blade was exotically undulate. It couldn’t be a common weapon…

The flagellant looked up to Silas’ masked head again, and understood: the brawler was carrying a ceremonial dagger.

Seemed the Light was finally going to take Damian.

 

  

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Opinions, anyone? Please? Feedback is always appreciated! :)


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here it is, the new chapter that took a bit longer than expected. :'D  
> I hope you guys like it! Thank you so much for all the support!

Damian looked down at the dagger again.

But the brawler turned his back at him and left, returning moments later with no mask, no chest piece, no stomach piece… and no dagger. Damian felt utterly confused, and for a moment wondered if he was thirsty and hungry to the point of hallucinating. Yet the feeling of Silas grabbing him by the arms and pulling him up felt too real.

And, for once, he was glad Silas was holding him: the world swayed when Damian stood up, and his legs felt heavy and weak.

Much to Damian’s surprise, Silas leaded him into the bigger chamber. The first thing Damian noticed was that the makeshift table was covered in baskets with food, and he frowned and wondered why the brawler had brought so many food at once. Other than that, the chamber was still the same – and there was still the snake’s lair, and the snake was nowhere to be seen.

Silas forced the flagellant to sit at the edge of the bed, then kneeled in front of him and reached for one of his hands. Damian, however, moved his hands away, raising them above his head:

“Haven’t you done enough?” he growled, his voice hoarse from being thirsty. Where was the dagger? What new antic was Silas up to, now?

Silas sighed tiredly and rubbed his temples. He outstretched a hand and waited, not even bothering to try to see Damian:

“Please, I don’t wish to fight…” Silas grunted.

Damian narrowed his eyes. It wasn’t like Silas to reveal right away he was tired – judging by his gesture and by how his eyes were lost. Damian pressed his lips in a bitter line, and slowly lowered his hands, but didn’t let Silas touch them:

“You can’t fix it.”

This time, Silas did make an effort to look at Damian, and he slowly looked up at him, fixing his eyes where he supposed Damian’s face should be:

“Only if you don’t let me try,” the brawler replied coldly. “But if you want… I can let you go right now.”

The brawler’s statement and tone made Damian frown in confusion:

“What are you talking about?”

Silas sighed and slumped his shoulders. He retreated his hands, realizing Damian wouldn’t let him fix his fingers. He stood up and began to pace back and forth in front of the flagellant, looking down at the floor:

“I was chosen to lead an embassy to the fish folk,” Silas told. The priestess had announced it while he was dressing again to leave her chambers, and he had been proud and exhilarated. Yet the moment the ceremonial chest piece was put on him to identify him as the ambassador and leader of the expedition, and he was publicly announced as such, realization hit him hard.

It was not like he had been favored, as his new status was only momentary, and it was in fact almost a suicide mission – the journey to the fish folk’s realm was long, across the crypts and the wilderness outside, until finally the shore was reached; Silas had a vague idea of how to get there, based on statements of cultists who were able to read maps, but if he got lost the fellow brawlers escorting him would question his authority, his capacity… and maybe would discover his secret; last but not least, nobody knew if the fish folk was receptive to humans, or hated them as much as the swine folk.

Damian’s confusion increased:

“But… isn’t that good?” A man so willing for power, like Silas, should be thrilled. Instead, the brawler was simply pacing around, like he had been convicted of murder and had only hours before being taken to the gallows:

“I don’t know,” Silas replied with all honesty. He couldn’t tell whether he was being punished for the time it was taking to convert the flagellant, or if he was being put to the test to ascend in case of success. All he knew, and he hated to admit it, was that his chances were grim. He stopped, turned slightly to look at Damian’s dark shape. “I don’t know if I’ll make it back, Damian.”

The flagellant’s eyebrows shot up to his hairline. It was not like Silas to be insecure, and Damian had to admit it was slightly disturbing. Why would a chance at glory scare Silas like that, when the brawler had successfully kept his blindness a secret from an entire cult? Who knew, maybe even his false gods were unaware of the fact, as well?!

“Why?” Damian asked, and the brawler bared his teeth at him, bitterly:

“I can’t see…” he grunted. “Not enough. If I make one small mistake… if the fish folk isn’t friendly…”

“Well, refuse to go!”

“To be deemed weak? No, that’s almost as deadly.”

Damian shook his head, slowly, and stood up. He didn’t approach Silas, and both men simply stared at each other in silence, few meters apart. The flagellant looked around the room and his eyes fell on the several baskets with provisions:

“Why are you telling me that?” 

Silas shrugged:

“I don’t know what will happen. I could kill you and solve one big problem…” he grunted bitterly. Though Silas doubted he would have the courage to kill Damian; even now, after the flagellant telling him he simply pitied him. The pain from Damian’s words lingered, and so did the feeling of something broken in Silas. Yet, he still wanted the flagellant, and maybe Damian was right, maybe Silas was a pitiful creature, lost in his want and craving. The perspective of leaving and never coming back to somehow finish what he started deemed the whole drama unimportant at Silas’ eyes. “But that would be too good for you, hm? No, instead, I’ll give you to choose: you can let me fix your fingers and you’ll be free to go and find your way out… or you can stay and pray to whoever pleases you that I come back.”

The flagellant stared at the brawler, speechless, as his resolutions and beliefs were shaken to the core, cracking and snapping, and it would take only another quake like that to shatter them completely. The walls were already breached and the fortress was doomed to crumble and fall, not due to a restless battering ram, but because the doors were willingly open. Light could shine in the darkest places, from the most unlikely sources. Damian remembered questioning his own faith, thinking about sin, but instead of punishment the Light had provided him with yet another proof of its might. 

What if, instead of fighting Silas, Damian was meant to convert him? Silas, who had been drawn to him since the first moment, and who had already given proof that he was not rotten to the core. Looking well at it, Silas had simply been raised and socialized the wrong way – it could be fixed. The sudden realization made Damian look at the brawler in a different way: Silas wasn’t a disgusting enemy who had to be destroyed, nor a fool to be pitied… he was simply a lost soul, in urgent need for guidance and salvation.

And who better to save a soul so close to eternal damnation than the flagellant?

“I’ll release Fluffy as well…” Silas’ voice snapped Damian out of his musings, and the flagellant had the brief feeling that a gush of wind nearly unbalanced him.

“You’ll come back,” Damian said, his voice so firm Silas startled slightly. “You’ll come back, and both the snake and I will be here.”

The odd blank expression on Silas’ face was almost comical. For a moment, the brawler thought he might have misheard the flagellant, but no insults or other offenses followed. Slowly, a smile spread across the brawler’s face, and he looked at the snake’s lair:

“Dragon,” he corrected softly, and it earned him a snort from the flagellant. 

Damian’s words were warm and reassuring, boosting his confidence a bit and flaming up his hope on the two of them. He  _ would _ come back triumphant. And he would figure out Damian, would find a way to get to him without being punched in the process and having to punish the flagellant afterwards. Silas had always enjoyed a good fight, but he must admit he was tired of this constant struggle with Damian. Maybe the choice of remaining in Silas’ chamber indicated that Damian, too, was tired. They could rest together, it was all Silas wanted.

But for the time being, Silas had to be a successful ambassador. He outstretched a hand towards the flagellant:

“Just to be safe…” he tried. In case he didn’t come back. Damian hesitated, but eventually held out a hand to Silas, who smiled, delighted, showing his pointy canine teeth. Their latest fight hadn’t been meaningless, but it wasn’t as important as the brawler had thought. Silas then guided Damian to the bed, and they sat side by side on the mattress. “We need to comfortable. It’s going to hurt.”

Damian knew that. He clenched his jaw in anticipation, flinching slightly as Silas began to touch insistently at his swollen hand, bringing Damian that uncomfortable pain again, the type that didn’t come from bleeding wounds and that he couldn’t cope with:

“Are you sure you know how to do this?” Damian asked when Silas squeezed a bit too much at one of the dislocated joints. There had been an old man in Damian’s village, known as Bonesetter, who knew how to put bones back in place. The old man hadn’t been blind, though…

Silas nodded and wrapped his fingers around Damian’s thumb, while his other hand held the flagellant’s hand:

“I fixed my friend, once,” Silas told. His friend’s hand hadn’t been this swollen, therefore it had been very easy to feel the joints; but he wanted to reassure Damian, not stress him out, and wanted to show he was reliable, that he could make anything. The brawler remembered where the feeling of joints should be, and the instructions his friend had given him. So he pulled Damian’s hand and thumb in opposite directions, frowning in concentration as he tried to feel the right place for the joint. The flagellant grunted in pain and lowered his head, and Silas thought that, if he talked, he would distract Damian from the pain. “I gave Fluffy a rodent, after I… snapped your fingers out of place.”

“Thoughtful,” the flagellant replied through gritted teeth, and swallowed down a whimper as Silas let go of his thumb, now hopefully in place:

“I think she ate it, I left it in her lair to make it more comfortable for her,” Silas held Damian’s index finger and repeated the procedure, earning a snarl and a swear word not fitting at all for a holy man. 

* * *

 

For the first time in his captivity, Damian was glad that Silas was right there next to him and that he could lean on the brawler. The pain coming from his hands was nauseating, and he had to close his eyes as he swayed forwards a little bit. His forehead eventually knocked against Silas’ chest, and for once Damian didn’t mind the contact. He just wanted both nausea and pain to stop.

Silas wanted to wrap his arms around Damian, but remained still. He didn’t know what had made Damian change his mind and drop his defenses, but he didn’t want to invert the process. Maybe that was how Damian worked. Maybe it had to be him setting the pace: few days ago the flagellant had willingly touched Silas and he had rushed it, ruining whatever had started to shape; so if now Silas did nothing, then maybe Damian would come closer again. 

The brawler still had to bandage Damian’s hands, to keep the joints in place, but he couldn’t bring himself to move away from the flagellant. Perhaps, Damian would move on his own when he felt like it, and all Silas had to do was enjoying their contact:

“Can you read maps?” Silas asked quietly. His first answer was a grunt:

“Maps,” Damian repeated, and Silas nodded, forgotten that, with his head against his chest, Damian wouldn’t see it.

Much to Silas’ disappointment, Damian slowly moved away from him. He crossed his hands over his knees and hunched his back, still trying to diminish the pain by appearing to be smaller:

“You have a map and are stressing about travelling?” the flagellant summarized, and that earned him a frown:

“Oh, but we can’t  _ see _ it, can we? And we can’t  _ ask _ a fellow cultist to read it, can we?“ 

Damian grimaced, forgotten that Silas had been miraculously fooling an entire cult.  _ Miraculously _ , and it had to be the Light’s doing:

“I can…” he finally replied, and Silas hummed in satisfaction.

The brawler stood up, went to fetch bandages and the map from a satchel he had left in his storage trunk. He returned next to Damian and kneeled in front of him, while leaving the map beside him on the mattress:

“Your hands,” Silas asked, and Damian grudgingly stretched his hands towards the brawler, who started to bandage them. Trying to ignore the new sparks of pain, Damian looked at the map.

It was different from everything he had seen before. He was used to maps depicting the universe, with the earth in the center, surrounded by the sun, moon and minor planets, all floating in a sky full of stars. Damian had been taught to identify the regions of north, south, east and west and how to navigate to any of them, guiding himself by the position of the Holiest Temple, in the center of earth, built where the Light had first showed itself to mankind: if he wanted to go north, the Temple would be on his back; if he wanted to go south, the Temple would be on his front; if he wanted to go east, the Temple would be at his right; and if he wanted to go west, the Temple would be at his left. 

The map Silas had showed him didn’t depict the universe, but a certain area. Damian presumed it was the extent of the Darkness’ realm, because it featured a detailed depiction of various underground tunnels and rooms, and vague illustrations of a wide forest crossed by a road, a village with a manor and a shore with a cave. It had to be a relatively recent document, certainly made by the cultists – what for, Damian couldn’t imagine, and wondered if the cultists didn’t have depictions of the world, like the Church of Light. Or maybe these cursed crypts were their world, and Damian could only imagine how terrifying it would be for Silas, blind, to leave behind what he knew so well and venture into the unknown.

He looked away from the map and to the brawler, still bandaging his hands:

“There’s a road in the map,” Damian stated, unsure of how he would manage to help Silas. The brawler’s head shot up immediately, though:

“I know how to get there. We meet Vvulf’s men by the road,” He smiled, relieved. “The road… does it go to the fish folk’s realm?”

“It goes to the shore, and there’s a cave… They’re fish, they must be there…” Damian tilted his head, trying to figure the right direction to the shore. He sighed, annoyed: maps were his least favorite thing to read, and he had always preferred to ask locals by directions instead of studying maps. How ironic, that he was now struggling to read a map to help a cultist brawler. “Maybe… if you leave the crypts… then… turn left when you reach the road?”

“Go to the road and turn left,” Silas repeated, nodding enthusiastically. He finished bandaging Damian’s hands, but remained kneeling in front of him. “What is the shore?”

The flagellant smirked, amused, and looked down at his hands: his fingers were stretched and bandaged tightly together. They throbbed, but the level of pain was much more bearable:

“A shore is where the land ends and the sea begins,” he explained briefly, and added, because he knew Silas would ask. “The sea is the biggest lake in the world, and the water is salty and very deep.”

Silas mouthed a silent ‘oh’:

“And how do I know I’ve reached the shore?” he asked in awe:

“You’ll smell the salted water, and hear the seagulls, and the ground will feel like crumbling under your weight. You won’t fall into a hole or something, though…”

Silas nodded. Those bits of information would be extremely useful to make him look like he could see his surroundings, and maybe give his fellow cultists the impression that he was wiser than they thought. 

“When are you leaving?” Damian asked, and the brawler stood up and started to pace around the sleeping chamber. A little voice in the back of Silas’ mind warned him that the flagellant’s sudden change of behavior could mean no good, that his helpfulness could be a trap. It would be so easy for Silas to doom himself if Damian’s indications were a lie…

And yet, the brawler still wanted to believe it was real; that Damian really wanted him to come back:

“Tonight,” He stopped and turned his head to look at Damian’s vague and dark shape, mingling with the shapes of the bed and pillows and with the darkness that was the wall behind the bed. “Why the sudden concern?”

Damian kept looking at his hands, his back hunched and his head low:

“You’re not a bad man, Silas,” he muttered:

“Even if I snapped your fingers out of place?”

“That was unnecessary, yes…” Damian grunted and looked at the brawler. Silas had made him feel things again, and he had punched the brawler away. Had that been necessary? Couldn’t have he simply asked the brawler to stop? Why did they always have to have such extreme reactions to each other? “But I punched you…”

“That was unnecessary…” Silas agreed:

“I don’t like it when you… trap me, like that…”

Silas’ shoulders slouched and he sighed, tired:

“I want you. How am I supposed to show you that, if I don’t touch you?”

“You’re constantly saying that you want me, you don’t need to be so explicit!”

“But when someone wants-“

“No, that’s not how it works!” Damian snapped, but he couldn’t be angry at the brawler. 

Silas didn’t know how to make it different. All he knew were the wicked ways of debauchery his false gods and priests had taught him.

Silas went to sit next to Damian again, looking at him. His eyes were lost, but Damian still had the impression the brawler could see him, his weaknesses and doubts:

“How does it work, then?” Silas asked.

And Damian didn’t have an answer, because he had never been wanted, nor had never wanted someone. He knew the theory of love, but he was sure love and want were two very different things, and he felt none for the brawler. He did want to help Silas and set him in the right path, though. The flagellant opened his mouth to speak, but what should he say? 

How could he buy himself time? 

“Trust,” he blurted out. Trust. Something the brawler had in nobody, but himself – and a bit in Damian. 

Silas frowned:

“I trust you!” he exclaimed in outrage. Damian laughed joylessly and rattled the chains of his shackles. “… you attacked me…”

“I defended myself from your constant groping!” The flagellant clicked his tongue in annoyance. Trust wouldn’t spring between them if they kept bickering and accusing each other. “Silas… you say you want an equal… but… you can’t force me to want you like you want me, if you don’t trust me and don’t give me a chance to trust you…”

Silas didn’t have an answer for that, but seemed he wouldn’t need to figure out the flagellant: Damian had basically told Silas how to get to him. So, there was still hope for the brawler, because the flagellant was tired of fighting too. The brawler had to admit there was truth in the flagellant’s words, and he sighed:

“I might have been in a rush…” he admitted lowly, more to himself. Silas looked away from Damian. “Do you really pity me?”

Damian didn’t know anymore. He didn’t know what to think of Silas, other than that the brawler needed urgent salvation. Like always, the brawler had pushed him into a turmoil, and their most recent fight felt already distant. Damian was tired, and knew Silas, too, was tired of all this.

The flagellant took in a deep breath and shook his head, slowly:

“No,” he replied quietly.

Fortunately for him, Silas just nodded and made no more questions. In silence, the brawler brought him food and water, and because Damian’s hands were bandaged, helped him to eat and drink.

* * *

 

“I gave Fluffy a big rodent, and you said reptiles aren’t always eating…” Silas told as he covered his face with the skull mask. It was time to go.

Damian, sitting on his usual spot of carpet-free floor, couldn’t help a smile. Silas did listen to him, and the flagellant could no longer ignore the irony of that: a cultist, doing as he said and believing his words, and allowing him to talk about his faith; while everyone else that shared Damian’s fate didn’t give him a chance to speak most times.

The flagellant looked up at the brawler: masked, with the large gold chest-piece covering most of his torso, with the ceremonial dagger hanging from his waist and with a leather satchel with provisions and the map hanging from his shoulder:

“No weapons?” Damian asked when the brawler closed his storage trunk:

“Not for me,” And Silas had to admit that the perspective of having to rely on his fellow brawlers to fight off an eventual attack was extremely unsettling. He walked away from the storage trunk and stopped in front of Damian, looking down at him. 

He wasn’t very sure of what to say, now. The atmosphere between them was light, and he feared he might say or do something that could ruin it. He sighed:

“I don’t know how long I’ll take,” he informed. “If… if you run out of provisions… if Fluffy is hungry again… That door is sturdy, but with your stubbornness, I’m sure you’ll break the hinges with a stone, if you need to leave…”

Damian narrowed his eyes.  _ Breaking the hinges with a stone _ . There were so many suitable stones in the smaller chamber, among the debris… how come he had never thought of that? He groaned, and had to admit it aloud:

“I never thought of that…”

“I never thought of that, either… I don’t even know how many hinges that door has…” Silas confessed with a grin.

They chuckled, and Damian figured that he should try his luck. He scrambled to his feet and stretched his arms towards the brawler:

“In case I need to leave…” And he rattled the chains. Silas frowned and hesitated for a moment, until concluding that Damian had a point. 

The shackles were removed from the flagellant’s wrists and ankles, and Damian felt as light as a feather. He could ask for his flail as well, under the same excuse… but he opted not to. Not now.

He watched as Silas kneeled in front of the snake’s lair, lifted the fur covering it and slipped a hand in. The brawler whispered something at the snake, and Damian wondered if snakes were sentient being like dogs, or cats, or even horses and cattle, that could bond emotionally with their masters.

The brawler stood up and looked at Damian again. The flagellant shrugged, and suddenly his heart started to run faster and faster:

“I’ll be waiting. The snake too,” he told the brawler, and once again his words weren’t empty. He would be there, because Silas would return. 

Had to return. So that Damian could convert him.

Silas nodded and smiled briefly.  _ He had to return _ . He turned his back at Damian and left.

* * *

 

The embassy consisted of Silas and five other cultist brawlers, all armed and carrying provisions. The party assembled in a large room with an altar, where some priestesses and priests evoked an eldritch being to watch over the ceremony.

The party was blessed with the dark blood gushing from the altar and a priestess instructed Silas on how to conduct the embassy. Only then, at the end of the ceremony, did Silas realize again what was about to happen. The truce with Damian had allowed him to almost underestimate this enterprise, but the ancient symbol drawn with blood on the forehead of his mask, the chanting and the priestess’s words reminded him again that this could be a journey with no return. 

Everything could go wrong, way before meeting the fish folk. All it would take was a small mistake from Silas. His trust on Damian could be his doom, yet Silas thought believing the flagellant was still his best choice.

Damian had told him to find the road. So, when the embassy left the room with the altar, Silas leaded them from the deepest crypt to the tunnel that leaded outside, to the forest. The tunnel itself was connected to the manor in the nearby village, and it was through that tunnel that recently the bands of invaders used to come in to raid the cultists’ domain. But it was also through that tunnel that Vvulf’s men circulated, and the occasional forest creatures that dared to enter the tunnel – like the swine folk – and even the vampire hunter. 

Silas prayed mentally to his gods that the tunnel was empty, even from Vvulf’s men, who had an agreement with the cultists: the less to know about the embassy, the better – thinking about this, Silas almost laughed for having shared detailed and secret plans with the flagellant, and that the flagellant had aided him with the map.

The tunnel was empty, and the group reached the passage to the outside world undisturbed. The passage consisted of a steep staircase dug directly in the dark rock and leaded to an opening large enough for two men like Silas and Damian to walk through side by side, as long as they walked on their knees. 

The world outside was damp and chilly. The cold here was different from the cold underground: it wasn’t as intense, lingering only by the skin instead of piercing all the way to the bones. The cultists weren’t used to it and the feeling of humidity annoyed them. Even Silas, used to the characteristic cold of stone and water, wanted to protectively wrap his arms around himself. 

It was night, the moon was full and the world was dead and silent. There were no crickets, no owls, no wolves – at least, not that close to the realm of Darkness. For the time being, the cultists were safe, but the farthest they walked from the security of the scorched earth made by their gods, the more chances they had to find the twisted beings living at the edge of Darkness. Not to mention the ever-present threat of the bands of intruders. 

In that area, there were no trees or undergrowth, but a sickly cloud of fog veiled the world from the moonlight.  

Silas knew the way to the road: he had walked it many times before, during the day and during the night. His previous knowledge allowed him to walk as he usually did, with confident strides and squared shoulders, his back straight as he looked ahead. His fellow cultists followed in a queue after him: they too knew this part of the woods, and even if they didn’t, their eyes were already used to the dimness of the underground and they would be able to see the way.

The more they approached the road, the more vocal the world became: crickets, owls, the howling of wolves and the occasional, blood-chilling screech of a corrupted creature. But it was all from afar, and the danger would only begin the moment the road was reached. 

Silas was scared of having to walk on the road, because he didn’t know what lay ahead, and he wouldn’t be able to stretch his hands in front of his body to feel for any obstacle, nor would have the time to strain his eyes to the point of having a massive headache for trying to decipher the light spots and dark and vague shapes that made up his perception of the world. 

For the first time, Silas realized he was alone among his kin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Opinions, anyone? Please?


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, it has been a while!  
> I became super demotivated to write this story and only recently have managed to get enthusiastic about it again - for that, I thank you people for your support.
> 
> I was supposed to update my other fic "It's All Business" this weekend too, but the new chapter isn't ready yet and I doubt it will be ready tomorrow, so I'll leave it for the next weekend.
> 
> Anyway, a new chapter!

The road was reached by dawn.

The plain grounds began to go up gradually, and the soil under Silas’ boots changed from dry dirt and sick undergrowth to cobble stone. That part of the road was clean from leaves and fallen branches, as it was regularly used by Vvulf’s men. None of the cultists knew how far the brigands travelled by the road, and therefore if the road would be in such good conditions further ahead.

The moment his feet touched cobble stone, Silas immediately turned left and stopped, looking ahead. Now they just had to walk, be on the road until the shore was reached. 

A gust of wind coming from the front made him shiver and narrow his eyes: for the time being, the permanent shroud of fog that covered the area would be just enough to keep the sunlight bearable for Silas. He wanted to travel as much as possible with weak light like this: plain daylight and late night would leave him virtually blind:

“This way,” And he proceeded as confidently as possible, fighting the urge of stretching his arms forwards and give small and inquiring steps. The other cultists followed him, and Silas almost laughed at the thought of a band of cultists relying in the map-reading abilities of a flagellant.

At first, no obstacles or enemies were found. The road was a barely distinguishable dark large stripe on the equally dark ground, disappearing into complete darkness and flanked by dark dots and lines Silas presumed to be trees and light spots, and the road took them straight through the forest. Silas was becoming a little more confident as the ground under his feet remained leveled and solid. The wind howled occasionally, and it was the only sound besides booted feet on cobble stone.

Or so did the cultists think; Silas, on the other hand, became aware of the occasional crunching of leaves at their right, and he made a useless attempt at trying to see what was it that followed them. He even stopped, and so did the other cultists:

“What is it?” one of them asked, glancing at the bushes Silas was looking at:

“I heard something,” Silas replied and pointed at the general direction of the sound. “From there.”

“Your mind is toying you; nothing is there,” another cultist said. “I heard nothing.”

“Neither did I,” other cultist added, and the remaining cultists nodded.

Silas frowned under his mask: of course they hadn’t heard… they didn’t _need to_. Reluctantly, he looked away and proceeded, the other cultists following him:

“Must be a trick, yes…” he agreed, realizing that another stop like that would certainly undermine his role as a confident leader and probably raise suspicion, since such a faint sound like the crunching of leaves was not supposed to be heard among booted feet on cobble stone.

And that was exactly why Silas had heard it, and much to his concern, whatever it was continued to follow them. He took in a deep breath and bit his lower lip, praying to his gods for protection and guidance.

* * *

 

The embassy party marched for hours and didn’t find Vvulf’s men, nor any other living creature. Silas was starting to feel tired, but the world was lighted just enough to allow him to perceive something without straining his eyes and getting a headache, and for that he wanted to continue.

The crunching of leaves had stopped a while ago, and that had lifted a massive weight from Silas’ shoulders. However, a smudged crisscross of dark and light lines appeared in his vision, and so the weight returned to the brawler’s shoulders: what was that, an obstacle? What kind of obstacle? How big was it? Would they have to leave the road? If so, how would Silas manage to guide himself?

Silas wanted to stop, wanted to hesitate in his strides, tilt his head and strain his eyes, stretch his arms forwards. They were approaching the obstacle and he hadn’t said anything to the other cultists, who certainly expected his judgement. But how was he supposed to make a verdict, if he couldn’t tell what lie ahead?

He spared a longing thought at Damian, who had so kindly showed him the black and white patterns of Fluffy’s skin:

“Can we rest before climbing it?” one of the brawlers asked and Silas stopped immediately and glanced behind. The cultist, last in the line, raised his hands in a sign of peace. “You have set quite a pace, and I was recently injured in battle-“

“You shouldn’t have come, then…” another brawler, right behind Silas, snapped.

Whatever the obstacle was, it was _climbable._ Silas let out a breath he hadn’t noticed he had held, and nodded:

“We can rest for a moment,” he complied, and that earned him a grunt from the brawler immediately behind him.

While the five brawlers sat on the floor, Silas approached the obstacle, one of his arms stretched forwards so that he could find the obstacle without bumping on it. He felt it was safe to examine whatever it was that blocked the road, and he could always give the excuse, if needed, that he had been trying to figure out the fastest way to climb it.

His fingers brushed against a rough surface that Silas immediately recognized as wood. So, it was only a fallen tree blocking the road, and the crisscross of lines were the branches. He sighed in relief, feeling the weight lift off his shoulders once more, and touched around to feel the size of the tree trunk and how many branches were there.

Silas concluded he could hoist himself up with little effort and little injury. He broke off a large branch standing where he wanted to put his arm, and glanced over his shoulder again:

“We move!” he commanded and hoisted himself up.

* * *

 

Few meters beyond the first obstacle and the road began to lack cobble stones and started to be littered with fallen trees, dry leaves and large stones that had fallen from the slope flanking the road from the right.

Silas didn’t know what these obstacles were, but he was grateful they were big enough that he could see and avoid them as gracefully as possible. The lacking cobble stones were the worst, and he began to walk with more reluctance. Luckily for him, the other brawlers were also constantly tripping, and one of them even fell on his knees.

However, the further they walked, the lighter the world became, and Silas eventually came to terms with the fact that he must stop now, or he would get an unwanted headache. The other brawlers – especially the injured one who had already complained about the forced march – were satisfied to finally be able to rest a little, and so they all sat in circle, on the road, and shared provisions in silence.

And right when Silas thought the journey would go well, snarling and howling was heard on the road behind the group of cultists. The sounds were distant, yet at the same time dangerously close: if the cultists stayed, the corrupted canines would catch up to them quickly and the group would have to fight them off – which Silas didn’t want to: these monsters were small, fast and always hunted in pack, and since Silas had no idea of what lie ahead, he wanted to preserve his small group intact.

A headache in exchange for safety sounded like the most reasonable thing to do, and so Silas ordered the group to proceed. However, two of the brawlers thought they should stay and fight off the gnashers:

“They will follow us!” one of the brawlers argued logically. “And gather a bigger pack and attack us when we return from the mission!”

“They will not!” Silas clenched his jaw, thinking about something to beat his fellow cultist’s logic. The worse part was that the other brawler was right: by running away from the fight, the brawlers would allow more gnashers to gather and either follow or ambush them. “Gnashers don’t like the sea, and we are heading there!”

There was a moment of silence. More howling, approaching, and the injured brawler frowned under his mask:

“What is the sea?” he asked quietly, and the question was repeated shyly by the other cultists, including the ones who wanted to stay and fight. Silas puffed his chest, proudly:

“It’s the biggest and deepest lake in the world, and the water is salted. It smells, and the gnashers don’t like it,” he explained, very sure of his borrowed words from Damian and of his not so certain addition.

The brawlers who wanted to fight weren’t convinced, though:

“But we will return, leave the sea and the smell of salted water behind. The gnashers will come to us!”

“They will not, because… we are going to smell of salted water as well,” It made sense for Silas: if he smelled of iron and steel after wearing his mask and claws, then he would smell of salted water by going to the shore. This seemed to convince the group, and the rebellious brawlers grudgingly followed Silas’ lead.

And Silas uttered a silent, thankful prayer to his gods, and thought briefly of Damian, who had given him such helpful information about the world outside.

* * *

 

The brawlers stopped again by nightfall: they were tired from the march Silas imposed to them and Silas himself was exhausted by his own pacing and by the headache he had gotten by trying to see his surroundings as much as possible.

The lands around the road were now barren, leaving the cultists feeling dangerously exposed. Large chunks of missing cobblestone were more and more frequent, but fortunately potholes were the only obstacle in the road.

Setting camp on the road without lighting a fire, Silas assigned one of his rebellious fellow cultists for the first and longest shift of guard duty. The brawler wasn’t happy about it, but didn’t voice his opinion.

In the wide nothingness surrounding the road, no sounds were heard: no crickets, no howling, no screaming in the distance. Lying on his side, Silas wondered how did the seagulls Damian had talked about sounded, and if the shore was still distant. With his eyes shut tightly at a useless attempt to eradicate his headache, Silas allowed himself to forget about the mission and his unknown surroundings a bit and thought of Damian.

Silas took comfort in thinking about how happy the flagellant would be with his return. Damian would certainly ask him how the embassy went, and they would talk about the shore and the sea. Damian would care, and maybe he would allow some contact between him and Silas. For the first time, Silas realized the perspective of being rewarded by the ascended cultists in the behalf of the Heart of Darkness was practically a trifle when compared to the thought of having Damian caring for him genuinely. The brawler sighed, then changed his thoughts to his dragon and her knowledge, unable to appease his headache yet still falling in a light sleep.

* * *

 

The sun was barely rising above the horizon line when the brawlers proceeded. Silas’ headache persisted, but it wasn’t the first time he had to pretend he was alright. Think of it, Silas’ life was pretending. In the dungeons, he was very confident of his life-long mastery of it… yet here, in the open, it was a very different story. He was aware he was walking like he usually did, but he couldn’t help to imagine he was stumbling, or walking too tense, or that his arms were stretched forwards, inquiring and desperate to find something.

The gods, however, were on Silas’ side: nothing chased the brawlers and nobody noticed anything different about Silas.

The sun rose, but the air was moist and a chilly breeze began to blow, making the brawlers cross their arms in front of their chests, protectively. The light of the world was bearable, leading Silas to assume there was a veil of fog and mist between his group and the sun. Which was marvelous, and he proceeded the fast march despite the terrible state of the road, determined to diminish as much distance as possible in such favourable conditions.

And then he heard it.

A monotonous sound, rhythmic and hollow, coming from the deepest pit of the earth, produced by the greatest force there was. And an unfamiliar scent, and a biting cold wind, and mournful cries from the skies. His steps hesitated and for a moment he forgot he had to keep going, allowing himself to stop at the edge of the hill, where the road ended definitely – in fact, where the entire world seemed to end.

All the brawler could see against the dim light of the sky was a compact black mass, stretching to the horizon to north, east and west. The sea. The biggest and deepest lake on earth, rumbling quietly with a strength certainly superior to the strongest creature Silas knew. Blurred black shapes circled the sky with disturbing cries, and those were certainly the seagulls Damian had told him about:

“It’s… it’s immeasurable…” a brawler muttered in awe, snapping Silas back to reality. Still, like in a trance, Silas left the road and headed straight to the shore, the soft steepness of the hill feeling alien to him. Solid dirt was gradually replaced by a much softer type of ground where the brawlers would sink into slightly, and stumble, and lose balance, and overall walk in a rather undignified way. It had to be the sand the flagellant told Silas about, and what a horrid thing to walk on!

It became only worse once the hill was left behind and the brawlers reached the shore. Silas felt ridiculous as he tried to approach the water a bit, unused to the feeling of soft sand under his boots, flailing his arms occasionally for balance. One of his companions eventually fell, swearing loudly.

The rumble of water became a roar, and Silas stopped in his tracks, chilled to the marrow. The black, compact mass he perceived as the sea was a bit closer now - in fact, his only way to know the distance between him, standing on the sand, and the sea... was through that roaring and grumbling, and through the icy breeze coming from the sea, and only then did Silas realize how terrifying it was. The sheer size and power of the sea… and he was meaningless, tiny and fragile and weak against the roaring waters. Shrinking involuntarily, Silas wished Damian was there with him: the flagellant would tell him what hid under the black compact mass of water, and would tell him what lay beyond it, and maybe that knowledge would comfort him.

One of the brawlers puffed his chest bravely and clumsily walked to the waterside, watching with fascination the dark blue waves smashing against the grey shore in white and soft foamy fury. Crouching, he stretched out a hand and touched the water, shivering slightly at how cold it was and scrunching up his face at the scent of salted water. Then, with the spirit of a true scientist, the brawler licked his fingers tentatively, only to cough in disgust and spring back to his feet:

“It’s horrible! Impossible to drink!” he told his fellow brawlers; some laughed of his misfortune, others decided to follow his example and tried the salted water as well. Only Silas remained safely away from the water, staring in frightened awe at the sea.

“Is that where we must go…?” another brawler asked, pointing at a small cave in the nearby cliff, at the right of the group.

Silas couldn’t see it because the cliff was a barely distinguishable patch of a slightly darker shade than the sky, blurring into it. But he could see his fellow brawler pointing, and he nodded solemnly.

The sooner the mission was over, the sooner he would go back to Damian and Fluffy and tell them about the sea.

* * *

 

Walking to the cave in the cliff was painfully slow as the brawlers kept sinking slightly, and stumbling, and trying to give large strides that simply unbalanced them due to the instability of the sand. One complained about his knees hurting, other complained about his right ankle.

Still, Silas was determined to get to that cave as soon as possible, and he stubbornly fought against the sand and the cold sea breeze to walk as fast as possible. The constant and sorrowful crying of the seagulls was particularly disturbing, making Silas feel like turning around and leave that place to never come back.

Now that he was approaching, he could see a pitch-black blur on what was the bottom of the cliff – the cave. The sand became the less of his problems when he thought about how there would be no lights inside. The roaring of the sea increased, echoing in the bare stone inside the cave; soaking humidity replaced the freezing sea breeze and sand became slippery rock beneath ankle-level water once the brawlers entered the cave.

They walked in, further and further, leaving the sea and daylight behind, until there was silence and complete darkness.

Silas had never liked complete darkness. Though some passages and tunnels in the dungeons were also devoid from the humblest on candles, it was familiar ground where Silas could walk with no fear of stumbling and falling and knocking against things and finding an enemy. It took Silas years of childish bravery and pure luck to memorize all the paths and master his deceiving confidence… yet all of that was useless, now: Silas grew suddenly terrified, completely blind, with an unexplored path to follow and possibly enemies to face. Standing rigidly in the same place, all the brawler could do was to try to control his breathing, keep it from becoming desperate gasp and choked whines.

With doubt gnawing at him, Silas thought he shouldn’t have promised Damian he would return, he should have simply released the flagellant and the dragon. Clenching his fists, Silas thought sadly at Damian, innocently believing Silas would be able to accomplish the mission. And would have Damian looked at him with fondness when they parted, would have the look of his face and the glint of his eyes corresponded to the emotions Silas felt in his voice?

The brawler bared his teeth in a grin, feeling revolted at the irony of the situation: he had worked so hard to tame the flagellant, and now the gods had sent him to his death. He would never live to see the day Damian embraced the true faith, would never experience the feeling of Damian’s body against his, would never bask in Damian’s warmth. And his dragon, who would never share her ancient knowledge with him! Silas gritted his teeth and asked himself _why_ and _what had he done that wasn't enough to please the gods._

“What are we supposed to do, now?” one of the other brawlers asked, shifting his weight from one leg to the other, disturbing the water and breaking the silence.

Logically, they had to proceed. If they did not, Silas would be deemed weak and would be killed. Either decision Silas took, would give him little chances of survival. With a lump in his throat, Silas took a tentative step forwards:

“We march,” he commanded, his hoarse voice sounding feeble in the vastness of the cave.

* * *

 

Slowly, the embassy party walked deeper and deeper into the cave, always with water around their ankles, always stepping on slippery rock. Sometimes an eerie blue light flicked above the water, strong enough for Silas to see glimpses of it. Yet other than that, always the daunting darkness. Silas leaded the group always in a straight line, with his arms shamelessly stretched forwards, feeling the gelid rock of the walls and searching for an obstacle that never appeared.

The silence was still crushing, despite the sounds of men walking through the water. Silas had to admit the sound brought him a little comfort, as it kept his senses on edge but not to the point of straining them.

Until suddenly he heard something else and came to an abrupt halt, making the other brawlers collide with him and hiss in indignancy at the lack of warning to stop.

 _Something_ was following them, something that moved graciously in the water, as it were its natural environment… The other brawlers heard it to and looked around, uselessly and nervously.

 _The fish-folk_.

“We come in peace!” Silas announced in a booming voice, a stark contrast with his fragility from moments ago. “We bring an offering!”

The sounds of disturbed water ceased gradually. From the group’s right, where the water was unbelievably deeper, a blue light rose with spiraling sparks of white. Light that broke the complete darkness, and Silas held his breath for a moment, the sight a gush of wind on his dead embers of hope of making it out alive.

And from the water came a melody, eerie and powerful and somewhat beautiful, but that for Silas sounded exactly like the cry of the seagulls: a mournful warning to turn around and run, run and never look back.

Together with the melody something emerged from the waters, and Silas perceived it as a large, shapeless black blur against the faint light above the water. Whatever it was, was responsible for the melody.

Silas had no idea who this creature was, but he presumed it should be an important member of the fish-folk. It approached the group quickly, bringing a horrible stench to salted water and rot that had Silas’ skin crawling back in repugnance. Still, the brawler gave his best to play his role:

“We come in peace and bring an offering!” he told again over the melody and reached out for the ceremonial dagger - the finest metalwork there was, fatal and exuberantly decorated with gems, the type of dagger very appreciated and treasured by the cultists for the perfect match of beauty and utility.

There was a sudden flash of light so strong Silas had to narrow his eyes. The other brawlers let out exclamations of surprise and prayers as, in the middle of the flash, the large shape advancing to them shifted slightly to something smaller and more delicate. Then the flash of light was gone, the melody became more seductive and chaos ensued when one of the brawlers roared and began to attack his companions, who in turn tried to yell some sense at him and had to defend themselves – and Silas, the weaponless ambassador – from their companion’s vicious attacks.

The brawler under the Siren’s control was indifferent to the wounds he received as he tried to kill the other brawlers. Unresponsive to Silas’ barked commands and to pleas of good sense from his former companions, the brawler finally succumbed to a vicious gash on his neck and fell with a gurgling sound to the water.

A second of shocked silence followed, until the eerie melody began again:

“We must leave!” Silas commanded, immediately understanding the situation and wishing at least an acolyte had come with them, to use her magic to protect them. “Before another of us falls under the spell!”

Silas was rudely pulled to line up between two brawlers meant to protect him as the group, now reduced to four escorts, hastily retreated through the same way they came. But running in water and slippery rock in complete darkness was even more difficult than running in sand, and more creatures came out of the water to attack them. Silas yelled that nobody should waste time fighting, that they should simply run for their lives.

The brawler behind Silas was caught and pulled into the deepest part of the water with a cry, but none of his companions tried to help him.

* * *

 

When the group left the cave, there was only Silas and another brawler left, the one who had been injured in a fight prior to the mission. Spurred by the darkness and hostile fishmen from the cave, the two brawlers didn’t stop running when their feet finally exchanged water and slippery rock for moist sand – the tide was rising, threatening to trap them against the cliff if they didn’t reach the hill and the road again.

They didn’t feel the biting cold, nor heard the waves crashing against rock and shore all around them, nor heard the seagull’s cry, nor felt bothered by the sand under their boots. The brawlers simply ran, eyes wide in the dim nightfall and mouth open as they took in sharp breaths. With lungs ablaze and legs aching from the effort, they finally made it to the larger part of the shore, where they had first arrived, and began to climb the hill.

Silas was simply aware of the dark shape running next to him, his last remaining brawler, and he guided himself by his companion. When they reached the top of the hill, they collapsed on the ground, panting, and lied still for a while, trying to appease their lungs and legs, slowly becoming conscious of how cold the air around them was, and of the seagulls, and of the threatening sea.

With a whimper, Silas scrambled to his feet and wrapped his arms around himself:

“We must go,” he declared with a worried voice. “A long journey home awaits, and the fish-folk might come after us.”

The mission had failed and now Silas had to go all the way back with simply one companion to rely on. The brawler was sure they weren’t safe from danger just yet, and whatever had been following them in the beginning of the road would be waiting for them. They were freezing, exhausted, many provisions had been lost and perhaps they were injured and hadn’t even noticed it.

Yet, Silas felt somewhat hopeful that he would indeed make it back to Damian and his dragon. Either his gods or Damian’s Light had watched over him, and now he had the chance of fulfilling his promise. With a mental thankful prayer to whoever had helped him, Silas pulled the other brawler up and, leaning on each other for support, the brawlers began the way back.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thoughts, anyone?
> 
> (also, there seems to be a plague of multi notes, and I have no idea of how to remove those extra notes. :') )


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